Empire's Son
by blank101
Summary: COMPLETE! Dark AU-Action/Drama. In the chaos of conflict as a Republic crumbles into an Empire, two babies are smuggled to safety to keep them safe from a Sith Emperor's attention. It will not be enough. Their lives take very different paths, one raised as the Alliance's New Hope, the other as the Empire's Son. Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Darth Vader, Palpatine, Leia Organa
1. Chapter 1

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Dark AU/Action/Drama. Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, Palpatine, Leia Organa, Darth Vader, Ben Kenobi.

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Emperor Palpatine has stepped forward to take control of the totalitarian dictatorship he has built, hunting the remnants of the outlawed Jedi Order down and forcing any opposition into hiding as he pursues his own absolute power. In the chaos of conflict, two children are smuggled to safety, separated at birth and given new identities to keep them safe from the Sith Emperor's attention.

It will not be enough.

Their lives take very different paths, one raised as the Alliance's final hope, and the other as the Empire's Son.

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Just a quick clarification: this is a completely new AU set in a new Star Wars Alternate Universe—it has nothing at all carried over from my other work (except George's characters of course!). That applies to character histories, timelines, motivations and rationale, places, circumstances, practices…everything. It's all starting afresh, spinning off from Revenge of the Sith canon.

The background story concerning events pre and post the Death Star's active status is, however, based on canon events, with only slight twists to account for canon ambiguity, inconsistencies (see, it's not just me!) or logical AU changes, the reasons for which you'll read in the first chapter. And yes, the events leading up to the Death Star's active status have been brought forward two years; no particular reason, I just like the characters being a few years younger than they are in canon, so I tend to reset that date in everything I write!

I should also say that this is, purposely, a much smaller tale—after writing a whacking great big trilogy, I felt like something a little less elaborate was the order of the day, so this is an attempt to hit the standard novel length with a simpler and more intimate plot. Hope you enjoy it.

Oh, I of course don't own Star Wars and make no money on this - ain't no plaid shirts here. All due respect to the man who wears them :)

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A couple of thanks:-A bhuí and domo arigato to Gabri-Jade, who did much checking of canon on the Cron Drift, from sources I didn't even know existed, and to TalonCard, who provided in one fell swoop the canon timeline leading up to the launch of the Death Star that I'd been making my head ache trying to get together for weeks!

And as ever, huge, _huge _thanks have to go out to my wonderful Beta, **Jedi-2B **(yaay!), who trudges through acres of text, always in great time and without a single complaint (save the ones about my grammar, and I can't blame her there P ) For your endless thoughts and patience, I'm eternally grateful.

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**EMPIRE'S SON**

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**PROLOGUE**

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It came out of hyperspace in a blaze of color and power, the accompanying contingent of smaller security ships whipping into real-time about it as the small flotilla came to a halt with the kind of pinpoint precision only ever accomplished by the military.

It was Nubian, the new ST12000, a big, sleek yacht designed for the high-end market and every bit as luxurious on the inside as the outside. About it were six small frigates and two fighter wings, everything spotless, as befitted the travelling mode of the Alderaanian Royal Family.

A big contingent, they were firing up sublight engines and closing ranks now that they had their bearings and had synchronized systems again. Unusually large, considering their destiny—though in truth, it was their destiny which had prompted it.

Still, refusing to attend the State Celebration on Coruscant to commemorate seven years of Imperial rule—the planet had now been renamed Imperial Center in the Emperor's effort to claim it, though no one referred to it as such privately—was not an option, even for Bail Organa, ruler of Alderaan and its representative in the Imperial Senate. Or rather, what was left of the Senate seven years after Supreme Chancellor Palpatine had taken the Chair and declared himself Emperor in an overwhelming, lightening-fast coup.

Bail, and therefore Alderaan, had been on the wrong side of that coup but had survived, if only because the upheaval in those first few years had necessitated a certain leeway for those in the public eye.

But such allowances were long gone now as the Emperor gained ever tighter control, and Bail knew full well he had to hide his dissent from prying eyes or end up a near-pariah, like Mon Mothma, long his advocate in the Old Republic's Senate.

And he had other reasons to be anxious too, as the glowing orb of Coruscant came slowly into view on the bridge of the yacht—reasons far closer to home and heart.

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Fifteen stories below, the door to the sumptuous living quarters slid smoothly back into its cavity, turning Queen Breha's head toward it as a small model of an Alderaanian zero-g fighter was guided in at stomach height to an accompanying 'vrrrrrrr' of engine noise, the small boy who held it before him now beginning a slow pass of the room, trailing the toy along the walls, one eye closed.

On its path, the small toy made a brief detour to trail across the surface of a low table scattered with colored pencils and creased, smudged pictures, every one of which Breha would keep to pin in bright drifts across the walls of his room, always the proud parent, encouraging her son endlessly in this, as everything else.

"What do you have there?" Breha asked, smiling indulgently to hide her unease before her son as he continued his circuit, his mop of blond curls and round apple cheeks all that were visible with his head tilted in applied concentration as he continued his loop, answering absently without looking up.

"This is a fighter—my fighter. I'm the pilot flying the fastest ship in the galaxy."

"And who gave you that?" Breha smiled.

"Captain Antilles," the boy said, of Breha's second cousin and loyal family retainer, always close to hand.

Though even Raymus Antilles didn't know the truth about Luke's heritage—even that was too much of a risk to take. As, in Breha's mind, was bringing her son here to the Imperial Court, even if only for a few days. But the 'invitation' had been very specific: the Alderaanian Royal House was commanded to attend the three-day celebrations to mark seven years of Imperial rule.

Seven years—the boy's lifetime. Knowledge of that only made Breha more uneasy, but she hid it before her son, for his sake. "And where are you flying to, little pilot?"

"Home," he said absently. "At a hundred thousand million clicks—faster."

"Faster than that?" she asked indulgently, wondering whether he had picked up on the nerves of herself and her husband anyway. He'd slept only fitfully for the last few nights of their journey, though generally he loved being on the yacht.

"But you've not even seen Coruscant yet, little pilot. Don't you want to see the center of the Empire?"

He shook his head decisively, slowing to a stop, big blue eyes still on the toy in his hand. "It's all…shadows and tangles," he said without looking, clearly struggling to put into words the thoughts in his head. "Like a forest at night."

His mother stilled, unsettled, before smiling again, her voice brittle. "Forests are beautiful places, Luke, even at night. Enchanted; full of fairies and sprites."

"And monsters and ogres," he muttered, still without looking.

As the slow turn of the yacht brought the majestic phenomenon of the ecumenopolis of Coruscant into view at the edge of the room's viewpane, Breha set forward and took her son's hand in hope of dispelling his reluctance, feeling the slight pull as he resisted.

"Look—look, here it is now. See how beautiful it is? It's never dark on Coruscant, Luke. Look at all the lights!"

"Look at all the shadows in between." He pulled back against his mother's hand, uncharacteristically reluctant, his usual bright anticipation at seeing any new planet completely quashed. "I don't like it."

Normally he was bouncing off the walls with excitement at this point in any journey, dashing between the Bridge and the exit ramp, whipping himself up into a whirlwind of animated enthusiasm. Was this just a childish mood, or something deeper?

"Luke, how can you not like it, you haven't been there yet." Breha crouched down to wrap her arm about him, giving him a slight squeeze as he leaned into her comforting presence, reassured as only a child in the arms of his mother could feel.

"It's…shadows," he repeated inarticulately, leaning into the curve of her neck as he wrapped an arm about her. "Shadows and tangles."

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The Royal yacht came to rest on the black-slabbed landing platform of the near-completed Imperial Palace, a huge, hulking ziggurat whose massive, angled walls of blue-gray stone stood a mile square at their base, casting deep, far-reaching shadows in the evening light. Hunched upon the brooding bulk of the main building, a second stage of near-equal proportions rose skyward in angled banks so vast that they seemed absolutely without scale. Only the vague lines of endless scaffold from which construction droids worked day and night gave any true sense of the whole structure's immense scale.

Built to awe rather than inspire, its daunting magnificence declared the unassailable supremacy of the new Empire...and absolute power of its Emperor.

Glancing out across the bleak austerity of its imposing grandeur, Bail Organa, Viceroy of Alderaan, steeled himself for the days ahead. The ramp had lowered to face eight parade-ground rows of white Imperial armor, lined with just one narrow row of familiar chalcedony-blue, the livery of House Organa. Bail glanced to his son, brought to the entrance ramp by Breha, her worries hidden with iron will behind her sweet, serene face.

"Three days, Luke, that's all," he assured, unsettled by Luke's solemn silence—though in truth, he didn't know whether he was seeking to reassure his son, his wife, or himself.

The usual formal pleasantries were exchanged with the Emperor's representatives—the man himself was seldom seen, even here—before Imperial pilots boarded the yacht to remove it to a more remote site, 'due to the number of vessels attending the celebration,' of course.

Which meant that now they were effectively stranded in the Palace, just like every other dignitary here. Even without an appearance, their glorious Emperor was adept at reducing the most influential of figures to precarious vulnerability in the name of palace protocol.

And so the endless tirade of functions and festivities began, a show of Imperial solidarity before a deeply wary public, all empty smiles and nervous glances, nobody daring to speak the truth and have the Empire's wrath turned on their planet—those who were even allowed to attend.

The Emperor had long since stopped bothering to court any non-human species, going as far as to turn a blind eye to the outrageous exploitation of many on Rim worlds which fell nothing short of slavery. Bail had long been a critic of Imperial policies in this, but it had achieved little other than to gain Alderaan a reputation as recalcitrant and fractious. Neither Bail nor Breha regretted their stands in the name of democracy, though as time passed they had both become aware of just how dangerous such dissent was becoming, particularly with a young son to protect.

So here, now, they conspired to have Luke remain always in the apartments which had been supplied to the Alderaanian Royal House within the Imperial Palace for the duration of the functions, desperate to protect him. To have refused to bring him would have only drawn attention to the boy—better to keep him hidden in plain view, hoping that the Emperor's legendary dislike of children would mean that although they had followed to the letter the command to attend, they would not need to expose him to any more danger than necessary.

The fact that Darth Vader, Palpatine's henchman and more importantly, a Force-sensitive, was not attending the event had been an indescribable relief to himself and his wife; both knew that the son they raised as their own was the product of an illicit union between a long-dead Jedi and a fellow Senator whom Bail had known well and missed deeply, Amidala, the abdicated Queen of Naboo.

When Bail had taken the boy from Kenobi, the Jedi Master had identified the father as his old padawan. Skywalker had been acknowledged by all as a powerful Jedi despite his youth, and it was clearly expected that his son too would be an exceptional Jedi—if they were to train him.

Amidala herself had protected the father's identity to the grave, aware of the gravity of their transgression; Jedi were strongly discouraged from making any emotional attachment, Bail knew, due to the ties, ambiguities and distractions it caused. Children in particular were strictly censured. It had long been known that the direct offspring of a Jedi tended to contain abnormally elevated levels of midichlorians—a concentration notably higher than the donor parent, inducing an unprecedented connection to the Force in all its facets.

As such they were considered inherently unstable, their attuned abilities too great to control, generally thought to be a high risk to train as opposed to those with natural, spontaneously occurring Force sensitivity. Though there had not been such an individual for generations, Bail had heard whispers that the last unfortunate was secreted away by the Jedi and spent her entire life interned within the confines of the Jedi Temple, certainly never ill-treated, but constantly constrained, her every action monitored by the Council. Who would want such a stifling fate for their child, even with the best of intentions of a greater good?

Even if she were alive, Amidala's son—one of twins—would still be in mortal danger in the new Empire simply by virtue of lineage; Jedi were now considered enemies of the state subject to summary execution, and in the weeks following the coup it had become sickeningly clear that this edict applied to any and all Force-sensitives, regardless of age and training. It was telling indeed that the first act of the new Empire had been the total genocide of a unique race, accomplished with cold precision and unconditional prejudice.

Bringing his adopted son to Coruscant then, had been a daunting prospect for Bail—far more so if Lord Vader had been stalking the halls of the Imperial Palace.

Highly placed in the Emperor's Court, Vader had been charged with the annihilation of all Jedi and had followed this command with legendary zeal. The surviving Jedi whom Bail had occasionally helped to avoid Imperial 'justice' had all claimed that Vader was Force-sensitive, perhaps even a fallen Jedi—the reason for his unprecedented ability to track and single out remaining Jedi.

Though none knew the history of Bail's adopted son, many of these fugitives had realized very quickly when in his company that the boy was Force-sensitive, all turning to Bail with somber, regretful eyes and warning to keep the boy hidden. Master Yoda, who had been present when Kenobi had first handed the newly born Luke over to Bail, had cautioned in solemn, serious tones that the boy must remain safely distant from Coruscant until he was old enough to be brought to Yoda by Master Kenobi for training.

His late father had been an incredibly powerful Jedi, only just finding his feet as the galaxy about him crumbled, still testing his limits when the coup had been launched. It had always been accepted that Anakin Skywalker was different; that he had, in some way, a destiny to fulfill linked with the old prophesies from the Journal of the Whills. When this did not happen, it was Anakin's son on whom anticipation of the prophecy fell.

Exactly what happened to him following Palpatine's coup no one seemed willing to say, though Bail had an idea that his Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, knew the truth. Presumably he had fought and fallen alongside his fellow Jedi, despite his exceptional ability.

Because of his father's aptitude, it had often been implied that Luke would one day be expected to train as a Jedi—that he would lead the covert Rebellion that Bail had spent years surreptitiously supporting and funding. To have a Jedi—a particularly gifted Jedi—stand at the head of such an army would, he knew, not only be a counter to Vader, but a rallying point for those who needed such icons to follow.

Leia too would be closely watched, they hinted, her own destiny carefully shaped. It was Luke though, on whom both Kenobi and Yoda had seemed to concentrate their expectations.

Such a heavy fate hanging over his son's head filled Bail with dread sometimes, to the point that he occasionally wished that he'd upheld his original choice to take Luke's twin sister instead. But having contacted Breha and talked it through, their decision had changed, and he had not for a single moment regretted taking Luke.

Just six days old when Bail had brought him to Alderaan, hiding Luke's arrival had been so easy in the upheaval of Civil War. Breha had gone into seclusion for a few months, before his 'birth' was announced as if he were the natural child of the Regents. It had necessitated his birth certificate listing Luke as five months younger than his real age, but the boy was small and fine-boned, delicate like his mother, and the discrepancy had never been queried.

And every day—every day he grew a little more; so fast. Already Bail could see the hint of a headstrong, idealistic young man in the spirited, inquisitive child who ran with such buoyant irreverence through the hushed halls of the Alderaanian Royal Palace, upending Court and terrorizing his tutors. His son had become the center of his life—so brimming with eagerness and optimism, with an unstoppable enthusiasm for, and curiosity about, everything.

Bail smiled warmly at that, aware of how often he felt like he was trying to hold on to a whirlwind. So much so, that he worried about taking Luke to the ever-solemn Master Yoda for training when the time came; fretted that his son would run endless hoops around the venerable Jedi and make the poor creature's life one long, head-spinning string of answers to endless questions as to 'why?' and 'how?'.

And just as much, he worried simply that he would miss the boy—that he would miss this tiny tornado of endless energy and boisterous exuberance. Often the only reason that Bail could carry on this distasteful pretense day after day was in the hope that ultimately it would provide a better galaxy for Luke and his whole generation.

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And now–now he was here on Coruscant. The one place Yoda had warned against going. But what was Bail to do? He had tried to contact Master Kenobi, still in hiding on Tatooine, watching guard over Leia in a way which would have been impossible for him to do with Luke on Alderaan, the presence of a trained Jedi so close to the Core systems too easy for Vader to detect. But he had received no return communication, so he and Breha had relied on their own council to protect the boy.

Luke had been hidden for so long in plain sight that surely, since Vader—the only known Sith and therefore the only possible threat to Luke's anonymity—would not be in attendance, it would be less obvious to simply brazen out the trip for three short days, they had reasoned.

Three short days… Now that they were here, every one seemed an eternity.

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Having attended functions throughout their final day, tired and wired, with plastic smiles frozen on aching faces, Bail and Breha were returning to their apartments to change for the massive State banquet which would be held tonight. Behind them, their honor guard of four Alderaanian troops were closely flanked by two dark-uniformed Palace Guards, but they were far enough back that Bail felt, if not comfortable with their presence, then at least not threatened by it.

This final night of the celebrations would be the first time that the Emperor himself would be attending, a rare personal appearance from the reclusive man who held Court by night and seemed forever reluctant to step into the light of day.

Once again, at Bail's casual request to the Emperor's Adjutant, Saté Pestage, he had been able to excuse his son from the banquet due to his young age, the poor boy having spent the last three days cooped up in the austere, oppressive surroundings of the cavernous, soulless suite of rooms assigned to the Alderaanian Royal House. He'd remained quiet and subdued, somehow knowing not to make a fuss or a noise, not at all the usual bright, excitable seven-year-old Bail knew and loved.

"Almost done," Bail murmured to his wife in reassurance. "One more night and then we're gone."

"And next year?" Breha queried, tiredness audible in her voice.

The celebrations were an annual event and though this was the first time that Luke's age had led to his being included on the invitation, it clearly would be standard from now on. Bail sighed heavily, turning the last corner of the tall, cavernous hallway leading to the sumptuous apartments—

And froze, heart in his mouth.

Eight scarlet-robed Royal Guard stood to smart attention outside the door, the six Alderaanian guards who were presently on watch there eyeing them with wary, helpless stares, everybody tense.

Bail set forward at a near-run, rushing into the apartment and heading for the door before which a further two Royal Guard stood without turning, Pestage, the Emperor's adjutant, in the doorway.

He burst into the room, breathless—

Luke sat on the long, heavy chaise, back very straight, still small enough that his feet were dangling clear of the floor, hands clenched nervously on his lap. Abandoned beside him on the dark, richly brocaded chaise were pencils and paper, a flash of vivid color in the unrelentingly gloomy chamber. His pale blue eyes turned anxiously to his father as Bail stepped forward and though he clearly wanted to run to Bail he held his place, frozen to tense immobility.

Opposite him, dressed in heavy black robes and a claret-colored cowl, sat the Emperor.

He turned, pale yellow eyes regarding Bail with arrogant amusement, his thin, reedy voice grating up Bail's spine. "Ah, Senator Organa. You have an intriguing son—quite captivating."

For several seconds Bail could only stare, voiceless, hearing his wife rush into the room behind him, hearing the slight inarticulate sound, half-shock, half-fear, escape the back of her throat—

Then he gathered his wits and bowed deeply to cover his unease. "Your Majesty, this is an unexpected honor."

"Really? Unexpected?" There was a note of dry derision in the Emperor's tone as he stood in a rustle of raven robes and Bail remained silent, afraid that anything he did would condemn his son, terrified his own guilt would be written over his face despite years of political expertise.

_He knows nothing—how could he, without Vader? Stop panicking and think!_

"Forgive me, Your Majesty; you have met my wife, Queen Breha, of the House Antilles. And this is our son, Luke." As he spoke, Bail reached out his hand in invitation but Luke remained frozen, hands together, small fingers tightly laced.

"We have been speaking, your son and I," the Emperor said, turning to the boy as he ignored Bail's words completely. "It seems we have a great deal in common. And Saté tells me that you have kept the poor child cooped up in these apartments since your arrival, Viceroy."

"At your indulgence, Your Majesty, I feel he is perhaps a little young to…"

"Nonsense," Palpatine dismissed without allowing Bail to finish. "The sooner a child learns his place in the galaxy, the sooner he will settle, don't you agree?" The last was issued with permasteel behind it, Palpatine already turning away, a response neither expected nor encouraged.

He looked to the young child, who withered back, eyes wide as the Emperor rose, casting a dark shadow across him. "Come, boy. I will show you my Empire—and I will tell you your place in it."

Luke glanced to his father in alarm, looking for assistance, but Palpatine spoke out before Bail could reason a reply. "Your parents must make ready for the banquet tonight. I will take you to the roof and show you the Oval, the building they will travel to, less than a mile from here in the grounds of my Palace."

When Luke still didn't move the Emperor's voice came sharper, twisting like a knife in Bail's knotted stomach. "Stand up!"

"It's all right, Luke," Bail assured quickly, trying hard to hide the fear in his voice, hearing the pounding of his heart in his breath. "It's fine, really. You can go—we'll be right here. It's fine."

Palpatine smiled a death's-head grin, spoiled teeth against wan flesh. "You can watch your parents' speeder leave, on its way to the Oval. Wave them goodbye."

Luke lowered his dangling feet down from the massive chaise, blond curls bobbing as he stood uncertainly, hands clasped to his chest. He was desperately scared and clearly aware of the tense atmosphere in the room, of the fear rolling off his father and the overwhelming confidence of the dark-dressed man with the yellow eyes.

He took a quarter-step forward, eyes to his father…

A pale, withered hand reached out from the Emperor's black robes, long fingers bone-white, nails curved to yellowed claws. "Give me your hand, child."

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Both Bail and Breha remained somehow upright as their son reached tremulously out, his small, delicate hand engulfed by the Emperor's, the action both controlling and claiming in the same moment.

And what could they do but stand aside as Palpatine set forward. Luke reached out as he passed his mother to trail the tips of his fingers across her powder-blue gown, before the two Royal Guard at the doorway fell into place behind him as he glanced back through their ranks, pulled reluctantly forward by the man who held him now.

The Emperor paused imperceptibly, eyes meeting Saté's, who lowered his gaze in a half-nod of acknowledgement.

As they turned the last corner out of the apartments Bail reached out to grab his wife, who had set forward with a broken cry. Holding her to himself, he whispered reassurances he wished he believed. "It's all right—it's all right, Breha. He'll be back within the hour. He'll be fine. He'll be fine if we can just brazen this out."

He steered her firmly away, trying not to make a scene before the eight Red Guard who had remained at the doorway to the apartment, knowing it would only endanger their son further. The Emperor knew nothing—without Vader's Force sensitivity he had no reason to suspect Luke of being anything more than he seemed: Bail and Breha's son. This was simply a power game, a chastisement for Luke's non-attendance during the last few days' official events, probably pointed out by Pestage.

Still, it had brought home to Bail his son's vulnerability here and he simply couldn't risk Palpatine's further interest. With hushed encouragement he walked his wife through to the dressing rooms where their somber, dark evening clothes were laid out ready, motioning for Captain Antilles to follow.

Breha collapsed down onto a chair, hands trembling as she brought them to her mouth, torn inside by the sight of her son being led away. Bail was barely able to console her, himself still struck by the memory of Luke's eyes, wide with fear and confusion as to why his father would tell him to go—would let the stranger take him.

As Captain Antilles leaned in, Bail whispered, "We need to smuggle Luke off-planet tonight—quickly and quietly, the moment he gets back. Get him to one of the Corvettes and hit lightspeed. Don't return to Alderaan—go to Tatooine. Find Kenobi."

Antilles nodded without blinking, though he did think to ask one more question, glancing to his cousin Breha. "Yourself and the Queen, Sir?"

Bail blinked, not having thought any further than his son's safety; in removing Luke they condemned themselves too, but the alternatives were too horrific to consider.

His whole life, his plans—for his son, for his wife, for his people—everything was turned upside down in an instant…but the sight of Luke's hand as Palpatine's had engulfed it, of the fear in his son's eyes, was burned into Bail's thoughts.

"We'll get out as soon as you send a comm confirming that Luke is off-planet. We'll go immediately after the State Banquet, but we need to brazen this out until then or they'll suspect something. Make preparations with the guards—we'll commandeer the transport which brings us back to the Palace and go straight to the landing platform. Be sure there's a transport prepped and tell the yacht to make ready to run—quietly."

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Raymus Antilles nodded briskly and left, mind already racing with what needed to be done.

He was in the turbolift, thoughts on tactics and timings, when the scarlet-robed Royal Guard who had remained outside the Organas' apartment turned to enter, intent on carrying out the Emperor's commands to the letter.

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Luke stood on a high, open balcony near the top of the daunting bulk of the Imperial Palace, its dim, faceted sides scaling endless stories before trailing into open pipework and scaffold which stretched up into the cold pitch of night, the tiny lights of construction droids weaving in and out of the hulking construction far above. Staring along its vast, open structure, a stray memory burst with absolute clarity for Luke, sending an involuntary shiver up his spine: that of a dead kobuck he'd come across that spring in the open ranges close to home, whose pale, delicate bones had pierced through its decomposing hide. This place too seemed a dead, skeletal thing, bones breaking through its hulking carcass.

Led through endless halls of identical, dark-dressed stone, the dark man's fingers tight about his wrist, Luke had no sense of where he was any more, or how to get back to his parents and safety. He stood as far as he reasonably could from the cloaked man, his back to the corner at which the wall and the open balcony met, his fair curls whipped up to disarray by the high wind which pierced the dark shadows and sheeted across the sheer drop before them.

"Look," the dark man intoned, vibrant yellow eyes searching Luke, leaving him more and more anxious. "Look anywhere, in any direction. This is my Empire—everything in it belongs to me. Everything."

As he spoke he made an expansive gesture with his arm—and in the next second he'd grasped Luke's wrist, yanking him forward and lifting him up, helpless.

Luke gasped but didn't cry out, shocked by the speed at which the black-robed man moved. He was hauled up and out, his feet hanging precariously over the towering drop for long, breathless seconds before he was placed with solid force on the carved slope of the balustrade's handrail. He slipped and scrabbled, struggling for grip, forced to grab at the arms which grasped tight about his ribs, holding him at the very edge of the precipice.

"Everything here is mine, to do with as I will. Even you," the dark man said ominously, leaning in to Luke from behind and forcing his balance off so that he had to press back against the man's shoulder to keep from lurching forward, desperately unstable. The hands which held Luke loosened and he gripped tightly to the dark man's arm, his slight form buffeted by the high winds which whistled through the open scaffold. One foot slipped forward off the handrail, the back of his calf smarting and stinging as it grazed against the edge of the carved stone, his shoe lost to the drop, disappearing into darkness.

"Stop!" Luke's voice was small and scared and angry all at once, breath stolen away by the wind.

The dark man paused as if realizing. "Are you afraid?" His voice was a mocking dare as he loosed his hands, his hold slackening completely. "Stand up, child—I won't let you go."

Luke struggled to maintain balance, hand grasping uselessly at the loose folds of the Emperor's sleeve as that last support was pulled away to leave him balanced precariously on the uneven surface, hand outstretched over the terrifying drop into darkness.

"Is that so hard?" the dark man asked—and Luke turned to realize that the hands he'd thought would be close behind him were gone completely, loose at the dark man's sides, and Luke was alone on the narrow ledge, no support, no safety…completely alone.

Heart in his throat, he turned in slow, deliberate movements, taking two cautious steps along the narrow, angled stone to the high wall at the edge of the balcony, the winds dragging at him as he grabbed it like a lifeline. He crouched, moving his grip to the handrail, finally balanced enough to scramble down to the safety of solid ground, heart pounding against tight ribs, adrenaline burning his throat.

"You let me go," he said, bewildered. "You said you wouldn't let me go and you did."

"I lied," the dark man said easily, completely unmoved by Luke's breathless disillusionment. "That is my first lesson to you and the only one that I will ever give you for free: I cannot be trusted, child. Nobody can. Ever."

There was the cut of a blade in those words, delivered like a blow with neither guilt nor accountability, and Luke was left to uneasy confusion beneath them, legs still trembling, as the baleful man continued.

"You are alone in this life, child, remember that. No one will help you, no one will defend you, and no one will provide for you. Whatever you gain, it will be by your own hands and your own will. You are utterly alone."

"My mom…"

"...is nothing," he spat, derisive.

In that second, fed by fear and fury and the adrenaline of the moment, Luke's lips narrowed to a terse line and his hand balled to a fist as he pulled it back to deliver a roundhand blow at the man who had spoken so harshly of his mother.

The dark man caught it mid-swing as if it were nothing at all, long fingernails digging into Luke's wrist as he hoisted it up, almost yanking Luke from the floor as he shook it. "What a malicious little streak of temper you have. You need to learn respect."

"Let me go!" Luke fumbled uselessly at the unyielding grip on his arm, soft skin bleeding beneath the drag of those nails. "I want my father!"

The grating sound of mocking laughter fell on Luke from above as the old man effortlessly twisted him about by the arm he held and dragged him forward, locking Luke in place between his body and the heavy carved balustrade as he pressed behind him, leaving him helpless against his tormentor's strength. "See? There are your parents, child. Down below."

All defiance was instantly forgotten as Luke saw the distant figure of his father walk over one of the scattered landing platforms set into the angled walls of the palace far below, to the enclosed executive speeder which waited. Still in the pale grey suit he had worn earlier, his father was little more than a distant speck against the unremitting black of the polished basalt landing platform, his mother close behind, the train of her powder-blue dress lifted and tugged by the squall. The memory of the warm brushed silk, soft against his fingers as he'd reached out for her when the dark man had led him away, made something inside Luke twist and snap in fear.

He stretched on tip-toe to shout out to them, wriggling one arm free to stretch his fingers out across the dark divide. But they didn't hear, the wind which howled through the open pipes of the scaffolding whipping the words away into the night as soon as they left his mouth.

The sedan speeder set off at a graceful pace from the platform.

"Say goodbye, child," the dark-dressed man said with expectant relish.

Still standing on tip-toe to see over the heavy balustrade, Luke was taking a breath, about to shout his father's name…when the speeder exploded in a violent blast of color and fury, the heat of the shockwave rumbling past a split-second later to rake through the curls of his hair, leaving the word, the memory, the hope dead, stolen away in a blazing, sun-bright instant.

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Just three weeks into her eleventh year, Leia Skywalker pulled her loose hat down against the all-pervading rays of Tatooine's twin suns, squinting against their brilliance and the mirages they conjured... But no, there really was a man walking alone and on foot across the plains, heading for the homestead, the distortion of the heat haze making him appear to float just above the pale sand.

She turned to run the short distance to the edge of the sunken courtyard, yelling the whole way. "Aunt Beru—Aunt Beru! There's a man walking alone…walking alone in the suns."

Wiping her hands, Beru came from the kitchen, looking up from the sunken well of the courtyard, barely shaded as the suns began to sink. "Do we know him, sweetie?"

Leia turned back, pulling her hat off to reposition it, short, chocolate brown locks bleached to pale highlights beneath the fury of those suns. Her skin too was a rich, dark tan from years of play beneath them, her pale trousers and short white tunic dusted with a fine layer of dry sand, as everything was here, inside and out.

"No…no, I don't think so."

Uncle Owen had come from the garage now, drawn by the noise. "Leia, would you quit yelling like a Tusken."

Leia glanced back across the plain. The man had grown closer, his feet firmly on the ground now. Dressed in a long cloak, its wide hood pulled up as defense from the relentless suns, he walked with an easy, measured pace, unyielding even to Tatooine's incredible heat.

"There's a man…"

Uncle Owen was already climbing the worn steps out of the courtyard. He slowed as he reached the top and was finally able to see for himself, and his perpetual frown deepened, lips pursed to a thin line.

"Leia, go inside." He rested one hand to her shoulder to hurry her along, turning to Aunt Beru below. "It's Kenobi."

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She heard little of the exchanges, though the raised voices scared her, as she stood with her ear to the closed door of her room. Fragments of her uncle's words, barked in anger, drowned out the calm even tones of the cloaked man who had walked alone in the desert.

"_Can't come here and expect… We can protect her—can you? …Safe here… Rubbish! You're talking rot, with your theories and your maybe's…"_

Then came the man's voice again, quietly insistent. She knew of him, of course—had heard her aunt and uncle, as well as others in Anchorhead, speak of his eccentricities—but she'd never met him. In fact, she was surprised Uncle Owen had let him in the house, after all that he'd said.

There was the low thrum of the main room's holoprojector activating…then a long, fraught silence, in which Leia could hear the muffled sound of a holo: a voice talking about Coruscant, about a celebration there…a news-holo maybe, from the tone of the voice. It paused, then played again, exactly the same words. Curiosity overtaking her fear, Leia cracked open her door and leaned into the hall. From there she could see the glow of the holo on the far wall of the living space…could see the edge of the image itself. It was a zoomed, shaky image of a wide balcony, beings with rich clothes and somber faces stood well back, looking down.

"There!" The cloaked man paused the image. "There—you see him?"

"Where?"

"There—the boy dressed in black! Wait, he comes forward in a moment. Palpatine pulls him forward."

There was a prolonged pause, and Leia risked leaning round the corner again to see the shaky image, but was forced to pull back quickly as her uncle straightened, voice dismissive. "That could be anybody."

"We've enhanced the image and…"

"You said he was dead." Her uncle's voice, brusque as ever, broached no argument.

"We thought he was. The palace declared at the time that there were no survivors of the assassination."

"Well then…"

"We know it's him, Owen—we're sure. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just not safe here anymore."

"Of course she's safe. Who'd look here?"

"Anakin might. Owen, if he knows he has a son, he may know the complete truth. If the boy's alive, then we have to assume that he's been on Coruscant, hidden, since Bail Organa's death. And we simply can't afford to..."

"Bail was killed four years ago, and whatever he knew died with him—the boy probably knew nothing."

"I can't afford to take that chance, Owen. I'm sorry."

"It's not your decision to make."

"… Are you seriously telling me you'd choose to take that risk on Leia's behalf?"

Leia frowned at the mention of her name, aware from the tension in their voices that everyone was acutely serious.

Her aunt spoke out, voice trembling with emotion. "Owen, we knew…we always knew that this might happen."

"Beru, he comes in here with some barely visible image and says it's the boy…"

"Owen, we have to think about what's best for Leia now… Owen, please."

"He just comes in here and…"

"Wait…" There was a rustle of rough cloth as the cloaked man turned slightly and Leia paused, holding her breath. "She's listening."

Aunt Beru came quickly into the hallway as Leia retreated, but she didn't shout or scold when she caught her. Instead she gathered Leia up in a hug so close it stifled and scared her. "Oh, you will always be my little piri, Leia. My little desert flower."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, sweetheart, nothing's wrong. You just have to go away for a while, that's all. Oh, I'll miss you so much."

"I don't want to go." Leia heard the near-panic in her own voice.

Aunt Beru leaned back to smooth a wisp of hair from Leia's face and tuck it behind her ear. "I don't want you to go either, sweetheart, I really don't. But we can write all the time, send messages and pictures—you'll do that, won't you, you'll send me lots of pictures?"

"But…"

"And Ben will look after you, he really will. He'll take you somewhere safe. Come and meet him, sweetheart, come and say hello."

Leia held back against her aunt's pull. "I want to stay here."

"But you'll get to ride on a starship, Leia, won't that be fun? A real starship in space!"

Leia softened a little at that, looking back towards the living quarters where the man had leaned around the corner, smiling sadly. He crouched to her level as she allowed herself to be coaxed in by her aunt, his hand out to her. His greying hair was streaked with dark blond, more of the same in the salt-and-pepper colors of his gruffy beard. And his eyes, like his voice, were kind and gentle.

"Hello, Leia, I'm very pleased to meet you. That's a nice hat you have."

She softened a little at his praise. "It keeps the suns from my eyes… You should wear one."

"I should."

"And you shouldn't go walking in the desert alone. Everybody knows that."

"You're very right."

"…Do you have a starship?"

"No, but I have a very good friend who has one, and she's waiting at Mos Eisley. Would you like to see it, maybe take a ride? Perhaps we can sit you in the co-pilot's chair, have your first lesson—would you like that?"

"…Yes."

"Leia," her aunt's hand rested reassuringly to the small of Leia's back, "this is Ben Kenobi. He's been here on Tatooine for a long time now, helping us to keep you safe."

"Helping?" Leia bunched her features in doubt. She might not have met him, but she'd sure heard her uncle talk about him. "But Uncle Owen says he's crazy."

Behind Ben, her uncle straightened uncomfortably, and Aunt Beru let out a horrified, "Leia!"

"No, that's all right," Ben said, amused. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'm incognito."

"Is that another word for crazy?"

"Leia!" Both Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen spoke out this time.

Ben only grinned beneath his beard, fine lines creasing about his eyes. He winked at her, as if sharing some common joke.

"But why do I have to go?" Leia wailed, clutching for Aunt Beru's skirt.

"You just have to, sweetheart," her aunt said, voice breaking.

Before her, Ben Kenobi tilted his head. "Leia, something very important has happened, a long way from here…but because of it, we know you're not safe any more. Not here. I'm going to take you somewhere where you will be. That's why I'm here."

"To where?"

"I don't know yet. But I know that you'll be safe there…and I know that we have to go today."

"I have school tomorrow." It was a last-ditch protest and she knew it.

"You'll learn lots of new things, Leia—I promise."

There was something in his voice that hinted at more than sand-dusted schoolrooms and the same old text on the same old datapads…

Her aunt leaned in, gently pushing to try to turn Leia about. "Why don't we go and pack some things, Leia, so you're all ready to go."

Leia's momentary fascination dissipated. "But I can come back, right?"

Her aunt and uncle remained silent, but the cloaked man—Ben—nodded, his smile visible beneath that sandy-blond beard. "Well, we need to sort a rather large problem out first, and it may take quite a while, but I certainly hope so. Perhaps by that time, you'll be able to fly your own ship back, what do you think?"

For the first time since Ben had arrived, Leia smiled, taken by the thought that she would do just that.

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It was just another ramshackle launch bay on the edge of Mos Eisley, but when they entered through the battered, sand-scoured door, the starship which rested within caught Leia's eye immediately, its sleek lines and gleaming finish too clean and too new for its surroundings.

She was tired and she was dusty, and Ben had taken to carrying her across town to the spaceport, her bag over one of his shoulders, her head rested against the other. But she turned as he entered the bay, nothing more elaborate than a banked dish hollowed from the ground, Tatooine's all-pervasive sand making a credible effort to reclaim even that.

And then the woman walked from the ship.

Wearing a beautiful shift dress of pure white and a wide, golden chain about her neck, she glided down the ramp towards them, smiling beatifically. Tall and straight, with fine features and russet hair, she had a face Leia instantly trusted.

Ben leaned forward to put Leia down, straightening with a quiet groan. "Leia Skywalker, this is Mon Mothma, a very good friend of mine. She'll take us to our rendezvous, where the Alliance are waiting. That's where we'll stay from now on—with them."

Leia barely heard, squinting up in awe at the woman's serene expression…and the words came easily. "Are you a queen?"

The woman glanced to Ben, her regal features softening further. "No, I'm not a queen, Leia… I'm a politician—or rather, I was."

"You're not any more?"

"No, I gave it up to travel with a very special lady, on General Kenobi's suggestion."

Leia glanced back to Ben…_General_ Kenobi?

"We should...get underway," Ben said, glancing about.

Mon looked immediately to him. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, but the sooner we can get Leia under the protection of the fleet, the better I'll feel."

They turned to walk to the ship and Leia glanced up from between them, reaching out across Ben to run her fingers along its smooth, spotless hull.

"Ben said I could sit in the co-pilot's seat and learn to fly," she tried, not really expecting to be allowed, having seen the ship. Still, if you didn't try, you never got anywhere.

Mon Mothma glanced to Ben over her head, and even Leia heard the embarrassment in his voice. "I said…uh—well, I thought..."

Mon's hand rested on Leia's shoulder, her warm voice tinged with amusement. "Well then, we'll have to see what we can do. I wouldn't want to be responsible for a Jedi Master not keeping his word."

Leia glanced briefly up, rolling that word about in her head: _Jedi_. They were, she'd been taught at school, the betrayers, the traitors… But always, Aunt Beru had rebuffed such things with quiet scorn, and even Uncle Owen, who had zero interest in dealings outside of Anchorhead, never mind Tatooine, had dismissed it out of hand, grumbling about governments and spin.

Aunt Beru may have been being her usual tolerant self, but Uncle Owen? He had a mean streak the width of the Dune Sea, so if he still said it was a load of eopie dung, then the matter was pretty much settled, to Leia's mind. What _wasn't_ settled, was why her teacher _and_ her history texts were wrong. She glanced up, about to voice her question, but the conversation had moved on about her, as Ben leaned slightly forward to place a hand to Leia's back.

"Thank you, Mon…Leia?"

All of Leia's questions were forgotten in the flare of realization that she was actually going to get a chance to sit in the pilot's seat, and fly. She, Leia Skywalker, was going to be a pilot! Nudged by Ben and knowing her part, Leia smiled genuinely. "Thank you, Mz Mothma."

"You're very welcome, Leia—and I think you should call me Mon, since we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

Eyes everywhere as she held on to the rough fabric of Ben's cloak, Leia allowed herself to be guided up the ship's ramp, the gracious tone of his voice already familiar enough to be soothing.

"I very much appreciate all that you're doing, Mon—and so will Leia, though she doesn't know it yet."

As they stepped into the cool interior Leia was barely listening, endlessly impressed by the pristine ship. Unheeded, Mon's voice held a grave tone, edged by steely determination. "Well, as you say, it's our duty to prepare her, Master Kenobi. And if so, then we should prepare her for anything…and we should start today."

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**CHAPTER ONE**

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_Coruscant, four years later_

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Shore leave—finally!

Lieutenant Han Solo stepped off the transport and pulled at the high collar of his standard-issue officer's uniform, undoing the top three buttons as he walked to the edge of the platform, a two-day leave pass and twelve weeks' pay burning a hole in his pocket.

The trooper at the guard box ran Han's passcard through the system and handed it back, saluting smartly. "Have a good weekend, Lieutenant."

Han glanced about; back on Coruscant after his third run to the back of beyond, he knew he was near the Mosiin province, but that was about it. "Any interesting night-life around here?"

The stormtrooper looked him up and down a second, but they were close enough in rank that he answered honestly. "How interesting are you looking for, Sir?"

Han shrugged, glancing at the distant lights. "I got two days—it'd better be pretty damn interesting."

The trooper nodded his head to the side. "Try the Dyging district, near the Palace. There're a couple of good cantinas there, but they're way down in the depths. The Atlas is good if you're looking to gamble your money, the Dirty Dug's good if you want something in return."

"Thanks." Han turned, gesturing with his hand. "That way?"

"Go down ten levels and you can get a public speeder. It's not really the kind of walk you should do alone, Sir."

Han nodded, turning and setting off into the night as his breath misted before him. How the hell did he always seem to get shore-leave on the part of a planet that was winter?

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The Dirty Dug had four bouncers on the door, but by the time he got there Han had already taken off his Imperial Navy jacket and pulled on a more comfortable pilot's jacket he had from his time on Carida. It still singled him out as Imperial Navy, but this far down in the depths there was a galaxy of difference between being a grunt and being an officer. He shoved the dress jacket into his duffle and pulled up his collar, paying the speeder cab and stepping out into the Coruscant night.

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On his fifth drink and finally getting that warm glow, Han leaned back against the bar and took in the room. It was big and smoky—so smoky you could probably get high on the fumes without actually bothering to buy the spice sticks. A tough childhood growing up the hard way under the scant care and absolute rule of a smuggler, bounty hunter, con-man and all-round lowlife bruiser named Garris Shrike, still let Han pick out the various types with ease. The booths against the walls were mainly pushers, dealers and buyers, looking to ply their trade with minimal trouble. The rowdy crowd to the center of the room who sported fast-draw holsters and confident grins were smugglers and gamblers, looking for the next job or spending the credits they'd earned on the last one. And moving between them all with the smooth grace of the predators they were, smelling out their prey and providing living proof of the age-old adage that a drunk and his credits were soon parted, were the frails and the twinks, looking for a trick.

He sighed comfortably, leaning back; somehow the Academy had never quite gotten that deep-rooted sense of feelin' right at home in a joint like this out of Han.

Roving the crowd, his eyes paused at the booth in the corner, mainly because the small glowball at the center of the table, which was the only light in each booth, was broken, consigning its lone resident to the shadows. The bright tip of a spice stick flared momentarily, lighting its occupant's face in an amber glow. Not much more than a kid, he was maybe fifteen at the very most, with wild, fair hair and a fading bruise on his jawline that looked like it had already turned every color of the rainbow. Slouched back, he had his booted feet up on the table, ankles crossed, the empty shot glass balanced on his lap already filled with ash. Head resting on the back of the seat, he stared up at the ceiling, the stump of a spice stick in his mouth, looking way too comfortable in a joint like this.

Han's eyes lingered as he tried to categorize the kid, but he just…didn't fit; didn't quite fit any of the types here. Probably a twink, cruising for a trick; yeah, he was the right age, right build—fresh-faced and old-eyed. Han set his head to one side in consideration; kid sure didn't seem to be trying too hard, though. Maybe he was just a buyer—the shot glass on his lap already had three stubbed spice-sticks in it, and the kid didn't look like he was planning on leaving any time soon. Han turned away, resuming his scan of the room to look for something a little more to his tastes, the kid instantly forgotten.

The night passed and the bar filled and the room got so noisy you had to shout to be heard, but Han liked 'em like that, so he was grinning at one of the working girls who had hit him up for a drink and was starting to talk business when the conversation behind him, shouted over the noise, drifted into hearing.

"Hey, hey! Someone's tryin' to hit on Spice-boy!"

"No, really?"

It was the amused enthusiasm of that last voice which caught Han's attention.

He knew instantly who they were talking about, and as the evening had progressed, he'd ended up pushed further and further along the crowded bar towards that last dark booth, so he only had to take a step to the right to get a view, pushing the pink-haired frail who was all over him to one side.

Sure enough, a big burly spacer was leaning over the table in that last dark booth, weaving slightly, a Weequay half a step behind him, egging him on. Clearly the kid had ignored him once, because now the burly human was pressing forward and nudging him none-too-gently. Han didn't hear what the guy said, but the kid glanced up this time, singularly unimpressed.

What was weird was that despite the incessant noise, the kid's quiet, clipped voice carried perfectly. "My name? It's 'Get-the-hell-out-of-my-face, nerf-breath'."

About the same moment as Han pulled a brief face, amazed at the kid's lip, he heard the two spectators at the bar beside him both go, "Yeah!" and "No way."

It took a good three seconds for the brawny spacer to register the insult, then he let out a roar—

And all hell broke loose.

The kid was grabbed by the scruff and hauled bodily out of the booth, several patrons around him knocked back in the flurry as the drunk spacer backpaced, still hold of the kid by the scruff, drinks and curses loosed as the knock-on effect spread outwards like a wave. In the center, the big spacer had dragged the kid clear when he suddenly staggered back a few steps, clutching his midriff. The moment he was loosed, the kid took a half-step back and landed a high kick on the spacer's jaw as he bent double, snapping his head round with a resounding 'clack' of teeth.

Grimacing, Han got his first real glimpse at the twink—and realized just how much of a kid he really was, less than shoulder-height to the drunk spacer, slight and slim and seriously outgunned. In fact, if the kid had any sense at all, he would have taken the opportunity and made a run for it because clearly the spacer, who was probably carrying twice the kid's bodyweight, was now madder than all hells.

Instead, as the guy straightened and powered forward, arms wide, the kid made a few fast steps on the spot to set his bodyweight in anticipation, bracing. Han flinched at the coming blow, wondering if the kid had a death-wish—

Then the big spacer was staggering to the side and the kid hardly seemed to have moved, save for a half-twist to drop a fast knee into his opponent's side as he passed, making the spacer stagger into a heavy table, winded. Dragged half-round with him when he'd made that last blow, the kid caught his balance, hand out before him in warning as the thickset spacer rose with a roar, upturning the table.

"Don't—" That was as far as the kid got. The big spacer plowed forward—

The kid pulled off a lightening fast snap-kick to his throat, dropping him on the spot and leaving him gasping for air…

Han had no intention of interfering, simply enjoying the show with everyone else, when the flash of something bright and reflective caught his eye in the Weequay's hand as it advanced on the kid's back—

"Hey!" Han pushed through the crowd, close enough to reach out as the Weequay pulled his arm back to make a strike for the kid at neck-level, a vibroblade humming in his grip—

Hand tightening about the Weequay's wrist, Han yanked backward, twisting it against its natural movement. The wicked blade fell to the floor with a heavy metallic clatter as the kid twisted about and dodged to the side in anticipation.

The Weequay turned on Han with a guttural growl as Han backed up a step, hands out to calm him…

Then a high-powered shot rang out, flashing over the heads of the melee and forcing everyone to duck. The band, which had continued merrily on through all of this, finally stuttered to silence.

Han turned…to see four stormtroopers at the doorway, blasters trained on the crowd.

Great; he'd been on leave all of four hours and he'd managed to get himself arrested… Just great.

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All four of them got detained, their ID's taken before they were even loaded into the back of the transports, Han and the kid in one and the two spacers in the other. The Weequay muttered something in patois as he passed, and the kid shouted something back in pretty passable Weequay as the trooper restrained him, voice weary. Clearly this was the end of a long shift for him.

"Hey—hey, you're in enough trouble as it is."

"I'm in trouble? Have you read that ID?" The kid knocked at the trooper's hand but he didn't loosen his grip.

"Yeah I read it. Aren't you a little young for Intel?"

The second trooper laughed, the sound rough and metallic coming through his vo-coder.

The kid turned, voice ice. "Back off, trooper."

This time the troopers found it less amusing. The one who had hold of the kid's arm shook him roughly. "Hey, you want to make it resisting arrest too?"

The kid glared and for a moment Han thought he might actually make a go of it… Then he suddenly seemed to calm and let out a short laugh. "No, what the hell, I got nothing else to do tonight."

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So now they were sitting on bunks to either side of a cell, Han wondering how the hell two days' leave had managed to go so spectacularly wrong. Four hours was a new low, even for him.

The cell was small and plain, no allowance for creature comforts made, so each of them sat at opposite sides on the hard shelf-like bunks, as the kid chewed his nail and stared silently through the clear plasteel wall and into the empty security corridor beyond, lost in his own thoughts. Han couldn't work out whether he was putting on a very passable indifferent front for his cellmate's benefit, or whether he really was that unfazed. Maybe the latter; twinks in any port got themselves arrested on a weekly basis. Most of the troopers knew the ones on their beat by name.

Slight and sinewy, this one wore dark hide pants and a fitted gray shirt in fine fabric, casually undone halfway down his chest. As he moved, it fell slightly open to reveal a glimpse of a blue-black tattoo there, the whole impression effortlessly dissolute. Aware of being studied he turned slowly to Han without blinking, and Han held his eye a few seconds before he looked casually away; he wasn't gonna be stared down by some pint-sized juvenile.

The kid watched him a few seconds more before, distractedly, he patted the pockets of the dark, fitted jacket he wore and pulled out a small pouch. Glancing from the corner of his eye, Han frowned; surely not…

The kid pulled a slim, neatly twisted roll and an engraved pewter strike-lighter from the bag, leaving han a second to wonder how the hell they hadn't been taken off him. Depressing the strike until its end glowed, he absently lit the spice stick.

"Sith, kid, what the hell you tryin' to do, get us shot?"

The kid looked to Han for a few seconds, as if remembering he was there, then turned away again to stare into nothing.

Han pursed his lips. "Fine. You know what? Go right ahead and get yourself shot, I don't care. Let 'em take you out back and try to knock some sense into you. Hell, it might even work."

"It never has before."

Han turned away, annoyed at the smartass backhand comment; fine, if that's the way he wanted to play it, let him. He glared at the empty corridor…and lasted all of three seconds before he turned back again, finger pointing. "Hey, in case you didn't notice, it was me who pulled that Weequay with the vibroblade off your back."

The slight kid glanced back, looking Han over through the haze of smoke from the spice stick. "I already had him pegged."

Just at the moment when Han had taken a breath to tell him a few home truths, the kid added quietly, "But thanks."

It was blunt but sincere, and Han relaxed again, studying the kid. Now, looking closer, despite his bruises and his dark-rimmed eyes he was way too well-dressed to be a twink, though he still had that worldly air about him. Had a Coruscant accent though; definitely upper-class refined.

"You local?

Again the kid took a long time to answer, as if trying to decide whether to admit even that much.

"Hey, makes no odds to me," Han said in reassurance. "Look, just ask 'em not to press charges 'cos you want to enrol in military school when you're eighteen. They know that you won't get in with a record, an' if they think you want to join up, they'll go easy on you."

"I'm sure they'll let me out any time now," the kid said with quiet, understated confidence.

"Whatever. Just tell them the military school thing, okay? Tell 'em you're tryin' to get into Carida."

"Like you did?"

Han frowned, surprised, and the kid nodded his head toward the patch on the arm of Han's old flight jacket. "Carida."

Han shook his head. "It doesn't say Carida."

"It has a pale blue rim with a gold edge on the unit patch—that means you trained on Carida."

Han nodded; kid was good. "Don't tell me—military family, right?"

For a moment Han thought the kid wouldn't reply, then he nodded. "You could say that."

Rich kid then, Han thought. Probably end up at Carida one way or another anyway. "How old are you?"

The kid took a long drag on the spice stick. "Too old."

It should have been funny, ridiculous even…but Han frowned at the grim cynicism in that remark. "You worried your folks'll find out?"

He'd seen a few of them on Carida—the insular, reticent ones from wealthy families. Those whose arrogant, career-military fathers and pretentious, over-ambitious mothers pushed them to be something they weren't. You soon realized that despite their wealth, you actually pitied them.

"Listen, if you don't want your folks to know, just plead the Carida thing. Tell the duty officer who processes you that you regret everything and you realize you were in the wrong…but lose the spice stick," Han added pointedly.

"It's fine," the kid dismissed evenly without turning. He paused, glancing to the empty corridor as he stood. "In fact, here's my ride now."

Han frowned—and seconds later, the heavy door to the detention block slid open and a mature man in a seriously expensive suit walked into the detention center's corridor, glancing worriedly through the clear cell walls.

"Luke?" The man paused before the cell door, turning to the Duty Officer with undisguised scorn in his voice. "Open the door."

It was the speed at which the duty officer complied that piqued Han's interest.

"Are you all right?" The man glanced the kid up and down as he walked calmly from the cell without answering. As the kid passed him, the man took the spice stick from his mouth and dropped it to the floor, stubbing it out beneath hand-stitched boots without comment from either of them. "You said you wouldn't do this again."

"No, you said I shouldn't do this again."

"If he finds out…"

"I'm sure he already knows by now," the kid said cynically, then paused, turning. "Are you staying there?"

Han rose quickly. "Me? No, not if the door's open."

The well-dressed man frowned at Han, cool gray eyes beneath trim, dark hair, greying at the temples. For a moment it seemed like he was going to argue the point, but the kid was already leaving the detention block. Han passed the older man, treated to a haughty stare but not stopped by either him or the duty officer. Kid was clearly from a _very_ wealthy family, he reflected.

Just how wealthy became clear as he stepped out into the sharp dawn air and saw the stately closed-top ambassadorial speeder double-parked outside the stationhouse, a military speeder ahead of it and another behind, the small flags on its wings denoting serious rank. Two very badly disguised plain-clothes bodyguards stood beside it, eyes everywhere, hands resting very close to the openings of their carefully tailored jackets.

Considering the area, Han didn't blame them.

The well-dressed man stood expectantly beside the open door of the speeder and the kid paused, turning to Han. "I'd offer you a lift, but trust me when I say it would be very bad for your career—and your health."

Han shrugged, dragging his eyes away from the smart sedan and the plain-clothes minders. "Well, my career's already shot, but I kinda like my health so I guess I'll start walking." He looked the kid up and down. "Thanks, kid, it's been…interesting. I always like to spend half my leave in a detention center. Reminds me of home." He paused, suddenly unwilling to leave, freshly aware of how slight and young the kid really was, little more than shoulder height to Han. "You gonna be okay? They look pissed."

The kid glanced to the sedan, casually dismissive. "They're just worried I'm going to make a break for it. I'm tempted to, just to see what they'll do."

Han looked to them, unsure if the kid was joking or not. "They look awful twitchy."

The kid remained still, suddenly talkative, clearly reluctant to get into the speeder. "That's because they're listening to every word we say and now they're worried I might do just what I said. Like you are."

The suited man took a half-step forward, arm outstretched. "Luke?"

The kid paused for just a second more, then walked away without another word, the door auto-closing as the well-dressed man entered the sedan behind him. The two minders gauged Han with professional appraisal before turning away.

Stood in the light dawn drizzle, Han watched them enter the speeders before and behind the big, blacked-out sedan, then the whole cavalcade set off with smooth precision, leaving Han to gaze at the military registrations as they rose upwards.

He stared for a few moments more before pulling up his collar and setting off into the breaking dawn, eager to be gone before the stormtroopers who were watching from the viewpanes of the stationhouse behind him changed their mind.

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my website, where there's a little extra at the end of each chapter - hope you'll enjoy!

(There's a link to my website on my bio page)

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	2. Chapter 2

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**CHAPTER TWO**

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Eyes dead ahead, Han Solo marched into the Deck Officer's neatly arranged office onboard the Star Destroyer _Gauntlet_, coming to a halt to snap off a quick salute as he clicked his heels. It was three weeks since his planet-leave, and to date no word seemed to have been passed on about the whole debacle, so he'd actually begun to think that he'd gotten away with it. Which would have been a good thing, considering that he already had a court-martial hanging over his head.

Then this. Hauled into the D.O.'s office in the middle of his shift without a word—never a good sign.

If it had been his own Wing Commander then at least Han would have had a chance to get his side of the story out. Commander Tory was a good officer who'd come up through the ranks the hard way, and wasn't above cutting a little slack for the pilots in his Wing. But Han and his wingman had been ordered in from a standard duty flight by higher powers, and Han sent immediately here on landing, still in his flightsuit with his gloss black TIE helmet beneath his arm.

"At ease, Lieutenant." The Deck Officer was reading his automemo with exaggerated interest, so Han was left to stare dead ahead for a ridiculously long time, waiting for the punchline. The D.O. didn't even look up to deliver it. "Says here you're awaiting a hearing on a General Charge of serious misconduct and gross insubordination."

"Yes, Sir."

The D.O. leaned back to study him. "That's quite a litigation."

"It's presently just a charge, Sir. Nothing's been tried yet."

"Are you telling me you didn't do it?"

"I'm saying it hasn't gone to trial yet, Sir."

The D.O. stared for long, dry moments, voice disbelieving. "You realize you could get drummed out of service for trying to help some Wookiee, though?"

"As I said, Sir, it hasn't gone to trial yet."

The Deck Officer glared at him, but Han was used to that particular stare from his superiors, so held the man's stare without flinching.

Eventually, the D.O. rolled his eyes back to the automemo. "Well, at least by the time it does, you'll not be an embarrassment to this ship."

"Sir?"

"You're being reassigned, Lieutenant," the D.O. said unceremoniously. "You're going planetside."

Han scowled; what the hell? "Reassigned?"

"Friends in high places?" the D.O. asked contemptuously. "Family connections? Or did you just sleep with the right Senator's daughter?"

"…Reassigned?" It was all Han had to say.

The Deck Officer stood, throwing the automemo across the desk at Han. "Put your thumbprint to the memo and pack your kit, Lieutenant Solo. You're someone else's problem now."

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Something was very wrong, Han knew… On a big scale—the kind that made his palms sweat.

He'd read the reassignment about two dozen times now, and he still couldn't quite work out what the hell kinda joke someone somewhere was trying to play here.

He was presently dressed in his best olive green Navy dress uniform, starched collar scratching at his neck as he followed two guys in dark blue uniforms down a corridor big enough to fly his TIE down and then some, wondering what the hell was going on. He'd been following them for quite a while now, but then it was a big building…a very big building.

The imposing pyramidal bulk of blue-stone Imperial Palace was, as every kid brought up under Imperial rule knew by heart, three hundred stories in total, and right now Han felt like he'd walked about half of it. He'd already spent over two hours in the main military complex at its base whilst an assortment of ever-more-senior officers had dropped by to glare at him and study the reassignment memo, before managing to hand what was very clearly a headache of massive proportions on to somebody else. Finally, when they seemed to have run out of people to blame—and damned if they didn't seem to have tried everyone in the whole place, whilst Han had waited—they'd commed up to the people on other end of the reassignment mandate.

Another hour in which, by the sounds of it, the people in question tried very hard to offload this problem onto someone—anyone—else, before they finally seemed to have run out of options and said, "Bring him up."

So here he was. In the Imperial Palace—the actual Imperial Palace. Not really the kinda thing that happened to your average TIE pilot. Particularly not the kinda thing that happened to one awaiting court-martial.

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They'd taken turbolifts up and across so many levels now that Han no longer had any idea of where he was, other than to note that the ubiquitous white-clad stormtroopers had given way to a more ornate dark blue palace livery. The occasional span of windows which seemed to run floor to ceiling for twenty or thirty levels in a single span, now showed the highest levels of the most elite buildings on Coruscant slowly falling away, so they must be within the body of the second stage of the three-stage behemoth by now, Han guessed. Plus the Spartan corridors had gotten wider and, if not more ornate, then certainly grander in scale, their dark mosaic marble floors increasingly complex. He had a feeling that the higher they went, the more ridiculously immense the cavernous spaces would turn out to be, which made it just as well that they were maybe just halfway up, 'cos he already couldn't take much more of this. All in all, he was now so far out of his depth that he was almost to the point where he wondered whether, if he just went for it and shouted something outrageous into the hushed reverence of the austere, fifteen-story atrium he was crossing right now, he might actually wake up.

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Then the blue-dressed guards had peeled off the echoing atrium and into a long corridor housing what were clearly private apartments, several per corridor. The third had its tall doors already open, and they marched into a dark wooden interior hallway hung with a long run of large canvases, abstract splashes of muted tones in the dour, windowless space.

The first room they entered, just inside the door, was a welcome relief from the endless corridors of sparse austerity, its dark gloss walls covered with whiteboards and auto-uploading calendars and pieces of flimsiplast marked with arrows and _urgents_ and the occasional _'LOOK!'_ tag, and whilst the wide desks were inlaid and polished hardwoods, they were scattered with the kinds of everyday paraphernalia and clutter which any working office would have. Two men in black military uniforms looked up in unison, their expressions a mixture of confusion and mild interest.

"Yours, I believe," one of the guards said dryly, then turned about and left without another word.

Glancing to the men's chests with the swift, automatic skim that any conscript had, Han noted that despite their youth they were both Lieutenant Commanders, so he made a brief salute and waited for the poodoo to hit.

The nearest man, the younger of the two, made a sort of semi-embarrassed half-salute as he stood, looking Han up and down. "Lieutenant Solo, right?"

"Second Lieutenant, yes, sir."

"You, uh…don't happen to know who sent you, do you?"

_Here we go: it's all been a terrible mistake—some kinda mix-up at HQ. Go back down the ten million levels you just spent the last two hours getting up, and don't come back. _"No, sir."

"Ah…see, neither do we."

Han was left standing to attention and staring at the two men, who stared back, obviously at as much of a loss as he was. The silence stretched to excruciating lengths…

"Um…" The younger man stepped forward again. "I'm Gorn…Therne Gorn—of the Ixtlar Gorns. This is Ashtor, from the Kailor Ashtors—big family." Gorn paused, his eyes remaining expectantly on Han.

"Uh, Han…Han Solo."

"Of…?" The younger man stared, clearly awaiting a run-down of Han's social status and pedigree. He seemed friendly enough to Han, it was just that they were obviously on different pages here.

"Uh…Corellia?"

"I…don't think I know the Corellian Solos. Are you…part of the aristocracy there? Or politics perhaps…commerce?"

"Not even nearly…sir."

Gorn straightened, smiling. "Oh, that's okay—between ourselves, we don't really use military rank much, not inside the apartment. Except when Indo's around, of course."

"… Okay then." Han heard the bemusement in his own voice.

The next protracted silence was saved by the sharp click of footfalls down the hard tiles of the corridor outside, and Han turned to the first familiar face he'd seen all day.

Gorn too seemed relieved. "Oh, sir, this is the man who had the commission. I told them to send him up until we sort this out, but it all seems in order. We're trying to track the originator of the commission now, without much luck. His name is Lieutenant Solo, sir. Lieutenant, this is Viscount Indo."

Han nodded. "Yeah, we met."

Gorn frowned, surprise audible in his voice. "Really?"

"Yeah." Not having the slightest idea as to how to greet a viscount, Han settled for a nod, since the man wasn't military. "You came to pick that kid up from a Trooper's Sector House in the Dyging District."

The guy—Indo—hadn't changed. He still stood pole-straight, immaculately dressed with that same sabacc stare, ninety percent superior and nine percent condescending, with just a twist of jaded distain. "I believe you're mistaken, Lieutenant."

"I was the pilot who got dragged in with him, remember?"

"You're mistaken," Indo repeated coolly. "Luke doesn't leave the Palace without permission, he never visits the likes of the Dyging District and he certainly doesn't find himself in Sector Houses."

Han was suddenly, intensely aware of the fact that the room had fallen to uncomfortable silence. _Great—fantastic start_. "Right, yeah…you're right."

The viscount didn't blink an eye, so the uneasy silence remained until Gorn finally sought to break it. "The Viscount's Luke's primary adjutant and tutor, Solo. He's always been with him, since Luke was a kid."

Indo turned that cool, fixed stare on Gorn, instantly correcting the familiarity of the aide's tone. "Luke was never a 'kid,' Lieutenant Commander Gorn; he was a minor. Where are Lieutenant Solo's commission details?" Indo took the proffered datapad, scanning through it as Han stared.

Sure as hell looked like the same guy to him, Han reflected—and the kid had been called Luke. This was getting uncomfortably weird. Seriously, what were the chances of his meeting the guy again, like this?

Indo glanced up from the automemo. "This seems to be in order…"

Gorn shook his head. "That's what we thought. I checked it, but…"

"I think I see what's happened here," Indo said ominously, something in his voice indicating that he'd realized where the commission had come from. Didn't seem that interested in sharing the fact though, Han reflected. Indo looked to Gorn. "Take Lieutenant Solo round and show him where he can and can't go. You should arrange for the correct ID cylinders too." Indo looked Han up and down as he turned to leave. "And point him in the direction of a decent tailor—that uniform looks like it was standard issue."

Han turned to Gorn, keeping his voice low as Indo left the room, those precisely spaced footfalls receding. "What the hell's wrong with standard issue? 'Course it's standard issue, I'm a pilot."

Gorn brightened. "Really, you were a pilot?"

"I am a pilot," Han corrected.

Gorn winked amiably. "Yeah, you see any TIE fighters here, pilot?"

Han pursed his lips, freshly sure that some kind of terrible mistake had been made and he wasn't even supposed to be here. Gorn chatted on regardless, his manner bright and genial. "I'll get you to a tailor this afternoon, if we get time. Indo's pretty up on keeping everyone in line here—if you don't have a decent uniform by the end of the week, he'll come down on you."

Han glanced down the wide corridor outside, seeing no sign of the viscount. "He the boss round here?"

"Pretty much. He's not military, but he's the Senior Adjutant, so he generally does all the hiring and firing, and makes sure that everything runs smoothly—and he has the contacts and the status to back it up, so it's best to keep on his good side. We'll get you set up with a few tailor-made uniforms by the start of next week, don't worry."

"What's wrong with the one I got on?"

Gorn laughed easily. "No one wears standard issue here, Solo, and absolutely no one in an adjutant position wears olive drab—you stand out like a sore thumb. You have to wear duty dress here. Black though, not drab."

"Why not drab?"

" 'Cos you're an XO now, pal—special commission. We wear black…all special commissions wear black uniform. Have you been paid yet?"

"No."

"Indo'll arrange for a sub of your first month's salary—two service uniforms'll cost about that much."

"A month's salary!"

"Yep. Then you'll need to get maybe two off-duties up to Indo's exacting standards in case you have to go plain-clothes, and one full dress, for State occasions… I guess you should have an XO pilot's uniform too, in case you're needed to fly."

"How much is that little bundle gonna rush me?"

"Well, let's just say you won't get much change from half a year's salary. But we'll start off with just the service uniforms, 'cos a lot of people don't last too long here."

"Thanks," Han muttered, scowling. "That makes me feel so much better."

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Gorn set out of the office with Han in tow, and they'd barely walked a few steps before Gorn turned again, chatty as ever. "You're a real mystery, Solo. No one knows who you are. How'd you get a commission here?"

"It just kinda arrived, I think."

"Seriously, commissions as XO's in the Imperial Palace don't just kinda arrive," Gorn grinned, clearly fascinated. "C'mon, how'd you get it?"

"Like I said, it just arrived yesterday, out of the blue."

Gorn slowed, looking a little closer at Han. "You know that people spend their entire career and half their fortune trying to get a commission in the palace, don't you?"

Han shrugged. "Yeah…ironic, huh?"

Gorn shook his head, amused, as they continued down the long corridor. It was cold and impersonal, echoing their footfalls back to them like walking through a stately home. Han couldn't see a single damn reason why anyone would want a job here, though judging from his accent, Gorn's probably very wealthy family clearly didn't hold with that view. And speaking of parents...

"So, this Luke kid, he's Indo's, right?"

"Luke? No, his last name's Antilles. He's a ward of court."

"A what?"

"You know, ward of court. No parents, no living relatives. The Emperor's his legal guardian, but Indo actually looks after him. He always has…that's what people say. Someone once told me it was Indo who brought him to Court, but I don't know if that's true. I've heard that Indo knew his family, but then again, most people say Luke came to Court sort of, four years ago, and I'm pretty sure that's not right, either. Well," Indo shrugged casually, "most people don't say anything because Luke keeps a pretty low profile, but if you listen when Luke and Indo talk… I dunno. Myself, I'm pretty damn sure Luke came to Court much earlier. But he was definitely here when he was eleven, 'cos that's when the assassination attempt was."

Han stopped dead. "Wait a minute, the what?"

"Yeah, the Rebels tried to assassinate him when he was eleven. First time Luke was seen on Coruscant, they say, and there was an assassination attempt just a few months later, aimed right at him. A kid—can you believe that?"

"Why him—why the kid?"

"Oh…" Gorn looked quickly away, as if he'd been caught out. "Just…he can do stuff, you know? There were still a few renegade Jedi fighting with the Rebels at the time, so they must have known. They must have, because they actually sent Jedi on the raid. I heard that it was when the last member of the Jedi High Council—the Grand Master or something—was killed, right here in the palace."

"Okay, wind back… _Do_ stuff?"

"Uh, you need to talk to Indo about that." Gorn glanced down, then awkwardly moved the subject along. "Don't get me wrong, Luke's fine, he really is. He's just kind of a little…wayward sometimes. Indo can handle him though; Indo looks after Luke a lot. He pushes him hard, but basically that's his job and, you know, Luke's a smart kid, he can take it. You probably did see Luke at that stormtrooper Sector-House, though—I mean, he's basically a good kid, he's just…you know, a bit unruly. Who wouldn't be?"

Han nodded; there you go. Rich kid, family hobnobbed with Viscounts, had a tough break and got left on his own, but fell on his feet when he ended up here. Got spoiled—way too much of everything around here except discipline, Han figured. Now the kid was growing up enough to start _really_ going off the rails…enough, in fact, that this Indo guy had pulled a few strings and got the kid a few military babysitters.

Gorn shrugged as he set forward again. "He tends to sneak out a lot—Indo goes crazy. I swear, that kid can squeeze through the gap under a door sometimes." Gorn glanced up and down the corridor nervously, lowering his voice. "But we're not allowed to talk about it, even between ourselves—Indo's rules. Why was he in a Sector-House this time?"

Han didn't miss those last two words. "Oh, he got in a fight in a bar."

"Really? Why?"

Han grinned. "Honestly? Some stashed-up spacer was hittin' on him—great big guy."

"Seriously? What'd Luke do to him?"

"He was pretty good in a fight actually. He was holding his own in a tussle with a guy who was twice his size, and…I seriously suspect your pretty good kid was off his face on spice."

"Probably why he didn't just kill the guy," Gorn said casually, before glancing meaningfully back to Han. "Oh, and never, _ever_ give him…y'know, stuff to smoke. If Indo finds out you've given him spice, you're out. Discharged on the spot. All the stuff from your apartment's waiting for you at the main gate in a storage box, and it's all you'll have for a long time, if you know what I mean, 'cos you're out of the military entirely and you won't be working in the Core systems again, that's for sure. No references, no pension, nothing. The last guy wasn't even military, he was Count Sofani, of the Mydos Six Sofani's? When Indo found out, he had Intel officers turn up at his apartments and basically march the man from the palace and _escort_ him off-planet there and then. By the time Sofani got back to Mydos, all his accounts had been frozen and—what do you know—all his debts had just been called in. Within the week, Intel had dug up some very damning information about Sofani's political dealings—enough to have him detained at the Emperor's pleasure, I heard. Bankrupted and ostracized the whole family—no one dare even talk to them any more. C'mon, I'll give you the tour. Have you been given an apartment yet?"

"Uh, yeah, I haven't been there though… About the Sofani guy who ended up in detention…?"

"Oh, don't worry about it, just, you know, don't ever cross Indo. Or Luke…but that's different. You'll be fine with Luke. He's kinda the instant incendiary: big explosion in the moment, then it's all over. Indo's more the slow-burning fuse type. Where's your apartment?"

"Uh…base structure, main palace…I'm guessing that's the lowest chunk, right?"

Gorn grinned again, rolling his eyes. "Level, what level? All staff and aides are in the base structure."

"Uh…one-sixty, north quadrant, I think. Is that far?"

"One thing you'll learn pretty quick around here, Solo: everything's far. Except Indo, of course—Indo's apartment is nearby," Gorn added amicably as he set off down the dark-panelled central corridor of the soulless apartment again. Beside him, Han felt he should tip-toe quietly, like he was in a museum or something. Gorn's explanations weren't helping either. "Okay, these are the State Rooms—in other words, nobody ever uses them. Luke uses the library for lessons—eight 'till eight, every single day if he's in the palace, but that's it. If he disappears, check there before you sound the alert…and the roof—always check the roofs—of the ziggurat and the turrets…but you'll need permission to go into the turrets."

"Wait, go back a bit—I thought this place was Indo's?"

"Indo's? No, his is two levels down."

"So you're saying this whole place belongs to…the Antilles kid?"

"Yeah, but he's not really here that often these days. He tends to move with the fleet a lot, which is good, because he gets itchy feet when he's in the palace. You won't mind fleet travel though, 'cos you've got your space legs, right?"

"Yeah. Uh…seriously, this is the kid's?"

"It's really not very grand compared to a lot here. This is pretty average, believe me. He wouldn't even have this much if he didn't need some of the rooms for official stuff. Plus the Emperor likes him reasonably close and the higher up the palace you go, the bigger and better the apartments."

"He lives here on his own? How the hell old is he?"

"He's fifteen. He got his own apartment a year or so ago when he was in the Emperor's good books—always a rarity. He'd just come back from D-Eight-Red—in the Ringali Nebula?" Gorn shrugged when Han shook his head. "It's some specialist military base, training elites. Luke aced the course in less than a year—in fact, just over six months—but then Indo had expected him to. When he came back, he had some fragment of information on Lord Vader or something, and he wouldn't let it go. Kept on digging, like he does. Eventually he turned up something pretty big to take to the Emperor and…well, long story, but the upshot was that the Emperor assigned this apartment to him."

"So he lives alone in an apartment, aged fifteen?"

Gorn nodded. "We look out for him though—that's our job. It's much easier now, too. When I first started Luke was in one of the rooms in the guest wing of the Emperor's apartments in the turrets, and only Indo was allowed into the apartments. The rest of us were sixteen levels down in the upper ziggurat, so it was just impossible. Okay, so the room we're in now, this is the Red Room. If someone has an official appointment, you show them into here to wait, and you always wait with them."

Han blinked at the brisk change of subject, glancing about him. Like the rest of the dour apartment, it was orderly and austere, the walls a dark gunmetal gray scagliato which had been buffed to a dull sheen, the high ceiling pale gray. The ascetic furniture was oversized and unembellished, all stark, hard corners of burnished metal and flawlessly polished ebony, not a single fingermark in sight.

"Why is it the Red Room?"

"Used to have a big red canvas up on that wall," Gorn replied, pointing. "I have no idea where it is any more. They change a lot." He continued his dizzying crash-course with no apparent concept of the fact that this was way too much to take in all at once. "It doesn't happen often that Luke gets visitors, but we're getting a few more as he gets older, and if we do, you damn well better get it right, 'cos it's usually one of the Emperor's lackeys and believe me, they're just going to go straight back and report every detail to him."

"Show 'em to the Red Room, right," Han said, trying to commit it to memory.

"How far they get down this enfilade depends on how important they are. Red Room is just general: aides, military, people like that. This room is–"

"What the hell's an enfilade?"

"This is—a run of big, formal rooms that lead one into the other. All the apartments belonging to members of the Emperor's Household have them here, even the minor ones like this." Gorn started a slow walk through the long run of empty, pristine, echoing chambers, offering a running commentary as he did so, which left Han feeling like he was taking the five-credit tour. "So this second room is where you bring slightly higher dignitaries, high-ranking military, officials, Governors, that kinda thing: you walk them into here. We rarely get them…the occasional Moff maybe."

"Am I supposed to remember all this?"

"Yep. Third room here is titled visitors, so that'd be Lords, Ladies, Counts, that kinda stuff. If Indo were an official visitor, he'd be shown into here. This final room is where you show your actual royalty to: princes, rulers, that kinda thing. We've never had any of those, of course—except the Emperor, and he can pretty much go where he wants. It is his palace, right?"

"Wait a minute…you get the actual Emperor in here?"

"Oh yeah, a few times now."

"The actual, real Emperor?" Han checked, disbelieving; there were a good few guys in the squadron who were convinced the man didn't really exist.

"I told you, he's Luke's legal guardian. Luke's folks are all dead. He stays here in the palace under the Emperor's wardship. He always has."

They'd walked the length of the long enfilade now, and came to a slow halt at the far side of the final room before a wide, tall wall of hand-rolled mercury-glass mirrors. Distorted by the irregular imperfections of the multiple small panes, their reflections were lost among the stark, broken shadows of the dark room about them. Brief slivers of the white winter sky beyond the banked windows fragmented the image further, into an ever-changing mosaic of near-abstract diffractions.

"Through there are Luke's private rooms. You don't, on any account, ever go in there without permission. He goes crazy."

Han studied the reflective wall, its sliding, flush fit doors barely visible in the endless mirrored panes. "Have you been in there?"

"Sure, yeah, lots of times, but never without permission. There's another three rooms past there, and it's the same deal as out here; the further in, the less public—you only go into the one you're invited into, right?"

Han gave something between a nod and a shrug. "Whatever."

"Oh, and don't ever give Luke a stylus. Indo'll come down on you big-time for that."

"A stylus?"

"Yeah, you know, an ink stylus, for handwriting and stuff."

"Yeah, I know what a stylus is," Han deadpanned. "Why can't he have a stylus?"

"He just can't." Gorn shrugged enigmatically. "Watch he doesn't steal them too. He gets 'em all the time, but we have to take them off him…well, Indo does—don't you try. Masco once tried to take one and ended up with it rammed through the center of his palm…left us soon after that. Uuh…I guess the rooms back there are kinda…different. Don't stare."

"Different how?"

"Depends what his mood is. We don't put a lot of furniture back there."

Han stared at Gorn's reflection in the mirrored wall. "What the hell does that mean?"

"We just…don't. Indo's the only one who goes past these doors without permission. The rest of us can go in as long as we have permission. The doors'll open when you get your cylinder transmitters for clearance. You just gotta walk up, like this."

Gorn walked toward the doors, and at the last moment Han heard a smooth snick as some internal lock was released. He glanced inside as the glass doors slid smoothly open, but little was visible, the windows obviously set on full privacy so that the rooms within were dark. Han had a vague impression of the continuation of the enfilade, the rooms joined by archways. One carved and upholstered chair was visible, laid on its side in the gloom of the nearest room, but aside from that they seemed empty. Weirdly, Gorn made no move to righten it. Instead he simply backed up, and the doors automatically slid shut on unseen runners.

"He like it dark?" Han asked, frowning.

Gorn shrugged, unperturbed. "Today he does—well, for about three weeks actually. Indo keeps going in and raising the privacy shields and Luke keeps yelling and shouting and putting 'em back down."

"Great," Han muttered unenthusiastically. What kinda mad house was he in now?

"He's okay mostly," Gorn said with an easy shrug. "Just, y'know, if it looks like he's gonna go off on one, comm Indo. That's the one thing Indo'll never get at you for; you can comm him any time, day or night, if you even think Luke's gonna throw a fit—any time at all. In fact, he'll come down on you for not comming him."

"Go off on one?"

"Sure, you learn to spot the signs and just give him a wide berth until it's over. Best not to get involved. Things get broken and, you know, it's good if it's not you."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Gorn just shrugged, heading back through the cold, formal rooms. Han took one glance back at the wide sweep of the dark, undulating mirrors before he followed, less sure than ever. "Maybe I shouldn't shell out for those uniforms just yet."

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Turned out they had all the time in the galaxy to get Han to a tailor; he did nothing but sit on a chair in that damn staff room for the next three weeks.

He'd been there for less than one of them before he realized that not only had someone made a mistake, but it had been a cruel one…and he needed to correct it. He needed a transfer out of here. He was a pilot, not a babysitter for some rich kid who, admittedly, Han hadn't seen much more than the back of his head maybe three times since he'd arrived. But still…

After the second week, in which no one turned up to tell him what precisely he was supposed to be doing, and Gorn just kept on telling him to basically keep his head down and draw his paycheck, Han started looking for an out.

Of course, it turned out that the only one with the authority to initiate and authorize his transfer was Viscount Indo, who pretty much ignored him even if Han was in the same room as the guy…and maybe the mystery wiseass who had somehow connived to dump him here in the first place.

It was only when Han realized on reading the flickering automated wall calendar one day, that the kid hadn't even been in the palace for the last two days—and he only realized that because Gorn started getting antsy about word of Indo's return—that Han started looking into ways to extricate himself from a job that seemed, basically, to consist of sitting in an office with Gorn and Ashtor and listening to them discuss yet again just who had upset whom, who had slept with whom, who had landed a bigger apartment or a promotion, and who was out on their ear.

Enough was enough. Cushy number or no, he needed to get himself out without making the court-martial that was hanging over his head any worse. What he needed to do was apply a little of that legendary Solo logic…and fortunately, he seemed to have all the time in the galaxy to do it.

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By the time a month was up, that court-martial was starting to look like a pretty reasonable alternative…

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my website, where there's a little extra at the end of each chapter - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page, or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	3. Chapter 3

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**CHAPTER THREE**

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"So, I worked out what you're doing here," Gorn said with a self-satisfied grin one morning as they entered the apartment together, each carrying a mug of hot caf. Gorn was, as ever, immaculately turned out, all crease-free and starched. Han, much as he'd suspected, seemed capable of making even a thousand-credit tailor-made uniform look a bit frayed at the edges—but then that was pretty much like he felt himself, most mornings.

Gorn's words woke him up though. "Seriously?"

"Yep. Indo left his personal log open on his datapad when he left the office for a few minutes last night, and I happened to browse a page or two. Seems Luke went on one of his little walkabouts a month or so ago, and this time he managed to get into the main military hub and slice an access into the mainframe, using borrowed command codes. Whilst he was there, he reassigned Commander Hotil—you don't know him, but he hacked Luke off a couple of months back—to some Outer Rim research station in the back-end of nowhere, requisitioned a high-end military swoop to be delivered to the SD _Immortal_—that's our usual ride—and apparently logged a little personnel-shuffle of a certain Lieutenant Solo."

"So this is the kid's fault?"

"Yep."

"What the hell did he do that for?"

Gorn shrugged. "Dunno. You said he met you in some cantina a while ago, right? Maybe he liked you."

"Well then, why would he bring me here?"

"I dunno." Gorn slowed down to stare at a huge canvas on the wall as he added distantly, "Maybe he didn't like you. Is that new?"

Han glanced to the canvas, dark red and black in frenzied, broken bands. "Wasn't it in the library?"

"Was it?"

"Speaking of where things should be, shouldn't I be in the military—I mean the actual military, actually flying."

"And getting shot at? Why would you want that?"

" 'Cos I like flying."

"What about the getting shot at?"

"You know, it's starting to sound more and more appealing when this is the alternative," Han said acerbically. "At least I was doing something. I had a career…not necessarily going to plan, but still."

"This is a great career. You'll make it up the command levels far faster here than you ever would flying. You just have to put your face about, network a little."

"Do I seem like the kinda guy who networks to you? Anyhow, I don't want to be stuck behind some desk, I want a Flight Command. I want my own Wing."

"Don't worry, you'll get a promotion pretty quick. Indo doesn't like to have the lower ranks on Luke's staff, so he'll hustle your name through if it looks like you're staying. And the duty rotation is only two years here—Indo doesn't like people hanging round much longer than that."

"How long have you been here?"

"About two years—but I keep my head down, so I figure I might make another year yet. I've had two promotions, and if I leave on good terms, I'll get another then, as a handshake. Plus I'll have made the kind of connections that keeps them coming—not that I intend leaving the palace. But if you can stick it out, you'll probably get the same."

Han rolled his eyes, but Gorn had a point, clinical as it was. He wondered briefly whether he could stick out two years around here on the off-chance that he might get that promotion, before dismissing it. Fast track or not, two years in that office would shoot all his reflexes to hell, completely aside from the fact that he'd be brain-dead from listening to Gorn's endless gossip.

"You said you wanted a Command rank," Gorn continued, still craning his neck to look back at the canvas. "I don't think that was in the library, you know. I think it was in Luke's rooms. He must have arrived back after our shift change last night."

"Where does he go?"

"This time? The Outer Rim. I think I've heard him mention the Horuz System a few times—the Emperor has some pet project going on out there. Very hush-hush." Gorn leaned sideways as he walked, to see into the Red Room at the far end of the dark corridor, its stark austerity broken by the brief splashes of vivid color from massive canvases. "Yeah, he's back. He'd had some new artwork delivered—it was stacked up in the enfilade."

"He buys art?"

"Yeah—good stuff too. If he's just opened that new delivery, he'll have hung it in his own rooms, behind the mirrored wall. But it's so full in there that he has to put something elsewhere to fit new in now, which is why there's so much art on the walls out here."

"That kid has way too much allowance."

What he didn't appear to have, Han was beginning to realize, was a life of his own.

Luke Antilles, as it turned out, was intensively tutored to a strict regime laid down by Viscount Indo, a run of specialist tutors appearing throughout the day from eight in the morning to eight at night, seven days a week—unless he was, as Gorn referred to it, 'at the Emperor's call,' which may mean he was gone for hours or days with no apparent notice. Though that didn't excuse him from lessons, it seemed. Instead, Indo travelled everywhere with him to assiduously ensure that time was laid aside for study late into the night if necessary, continuing via holo-link to the Viscount's exacting expectations.

Based on what else Gorn had said, how exactly Indo managed to get the kid to sit down for _any_ lessons, Han didn't know. But in fact, Gorn said that all his tutors described him as an exemplary pupil. Apparently the kid was smart and fast, with a good head for languages and technology. Which was just as well, Han figured, since the amount of spice he'd seen the kid smoke in the Dirty Dug cantina had to have taken a fair few brain cells out all on its own. Gorn had also said that the kid applied himself to study simply because the Emperor had told him to, in no uncertain terms, adding in hushed tones that while there were _very_ few people who could ever dictate to the kid what exactly he should and would do, the one person who could, every time, was Palpatine.

When Han had asked what the Emperor thought of the rest of the kid's wayward behavior, Gorn had shrugged, typically unconcerned. "I think as long as Luke does whatever the Emperor says whenever he says it, Palpatine's not interested in anything else…and as far as Indo's concerned, if Palpatine doesn't specifically ask, we don't offer. House rules."

The Viscount himself had arrived back in the apartment late yesterday evening, a sure sign that the Antilles kid must be in the palace somewhere, since Indo never seemed more than ten paces away from the kid. Sure enough, Luke had walked past the office that morning, eating breakfast on the move—the kid never seemed to eat at a table, wandering corridors with a plate or sometimes just a napkin in his hand, or sitting perched on the console table outside the library, between tutors.

Gorn had leaned backwards in his chair to watch him pass, then stood to press 'update' on the automated wall chart, which flickered then refreshed, now fully loaded with the day's arrangements. "Yep, he's back—they're already filling his days, poor kid. I should have known—Sini, in the Cabinet Office, she said that the brass are all here, and they're looking nervous. Apparently there was some kind of prison break somewhere, or something."

"Did you know he was coming back?" Han asked.

Gorn glanced briefly to Ashtor, who was still staring at the schedule. "No, we never know anything, unless we're actually going with him."

It hardly surprised Han that the kid had reappeared and nobody even knew. Fact was, Han saw him pretty much the same amount whether the kid was in the building or on another planet. The only difference was that if he was here, he appeared briefly first thing in the morning after Indo arrived, was either in lessons or gone all day, then eventually reappeared late at night, spending more hours in the library with Indo and some tutor or another, before locking himself up behind that mirrored wall.

Still, as morning wore on into afternoon and the automated wall-chart flickered up ever more arrangements, the generally easygoing Gorn slowly devolved into a nervous panic. By the time night fell, one final appointment uploaded and Gorn stood, rolling his eyes. "Great, now he's summoned to a conference tonight. I'll bet he's gonna go walkabout…I can tell. Damnit. Keep your eyes and ears open."

"Walkabout?"

"He's going to disappear—head out for the night, after the meeting's over."

"Head out where?"

"Anywhere. He hates the palace at the best of times, and this meeting's with the Emperor. That always gives him itchy feet." Gorn glanced to Ashtor. "Maybe I should request extra guards?"

Ashtor raised an eyebrow, tone dryly disparaging. "Yeah, like that helps. You're better just keeping it to ourselves and hoping he gets back by morning."

They fell to silence at the sound of footsteps coming back up the wide, echoing hallway.

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Carrying a scarlet-lined black jacket over his shoulder, the kid walked quickly past without a sideways glance, but by now Han hadn't expected anything more—

Then the light steps on the hard terrazzo tiles paused, and the kid backstepped into the doorway. Everyone stood, as the kid frowned at Han.

Han froze, aware of the confusion on the kid's face. He knew this had all been some terrible mistake…

Then the kid's eyes lit with recognition. "Han Solo—the pilot!"

"That's right."

"You were getting a dishonorable discharge."

"Uh…no."

"I looked you up on the military records system. Some commander…Nyklas…recommended a dishonorable discharge for gross insubordination and disobeying a direct order. Something about a Wookiee?"

"Oh, _that_ discharge," Han said. "Wait a minute, I haven't even had the disciplinary hearing yet."

"Oh it's a discharge. You were out." The kid nodded as if this was old news.

"I haven't had the hearing yet!"

Kid grinned, unconcerned—and Han was reminded anew just how young he really was, slight and fresh-faced, but still with that unsettling, worldly air—and way too amused at Han's predicament. "What can I say, file said they held it in your absence—they do that a lot—you're out."

Han glanced down. "Man, do you know how much I paid for this damn uniform?"

"I took your file over," the kid said matter-of-factly. "Got you transferred to the palace. You're fine."

Han hesitated. "So I'm not out?"

"No. You were re-commissioned here."

So that was why the kid had… Han glanced up. "Uh, about that…"

A second set of footfalls sounded and Viscount Indo came to a halt at the door, one hand out to guide the kid forward without touching him. "We're late, Luke."

Kid didn't even look. "Just a guess, but I think they'll start without us."

"Do you want to have to explain to the Emperor why you're late?"

The kid glanced to the side, instantly evasive, and Indo nodded. "Neither do I, which is why we should go."

Luke looked to Han. "We should take our new lieutenant with us."

"No, really, I'm fine here," Han avoided quickly.

"He's a pilot, Luke, not a trained aide," Indo said disdainfully. "He shouldn't even be here."

"What, all he has to do is sit in a chair and nod. That's all anyone does at these things."

"I very much doubt that the lieutenant can be trusted to do even that," Indo disparaged.

Han felt his hackles rise at the Viscount's tone. "It's all I've done since I've been here, anyway. I seem to be managing pretty well."

Luke grinned. "See?"

Indo ignored Han entirely. "Luke, think very carefully, the Emperor is hardly in the best of humor as it is. Do you really want to be the one who's forced to take responsibility for this man's actions when he performs some inevitable faux pas?"

"Thanks a lot," Han said, offended.

"What, he has to sit in a corner." The kid was warming to the idea now, clearly amused at the ruckus he'd started.

Indo kept that sabacc-face intact. "I'll ask you again, think very carefully. What do you know about this man?"

"I know he pulled a Weequay with a knife off my back."

"In a cantina in the Dyging district."

The kid took a step back, affecting scandalized disbelief. "Are you judging a man by the cantinas he drinks in? This, from the man who said I should never trust snap-judgments?"

"I am judging a man based on his military and civilian record, neither of which shines. And this isn't the time for this discussion."

"You're right—Solo, put your dress uniform on, we're late."

Han took a step forward—then stopped, suddenly wondering how the hell he'd ended up arguing to go. "Actually, I gotta go with Indo on this…"

Indo turned. "_Viscount_ Indo."

The kid grinned wickedly. "See? He's a natural! Just get him in his dress uniform…"

"Luke, you're prevaricating."

"What, it takes ten minutes…"

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Next thing Han knew, he was fastening up his dress jacket and wondering how the hell he'd gone from arguing _against_ going to whatever the hell this meeting was, to walking down a corridor fiddling with the collar of his brand new dress uniform. Damn Indo, for annoying him so much he'd argued to come. He stared daggers at the man's back as they traversed endless corridors on their way to whatever the hell meeting this was.

The kid drew alongside him, grinning impishly. "I can make that work for you if you like?"

"What?"

"That stare—I can give it a bit of…presence."

Han frowned, uncertain what the kid meant by that. Before he could ask, Indo turned, clearly not happy with his charge speaking to Han at all. "Luke, put your jacket on. We're nearly there."

The kid pulled his jacket on as Han fingered at his own stiff collar one last time. In truth, he hadn't expected to use it this soon…hell, he hadn't expected to use it ever. He glanced down as realization hit him that the kid was wearing a military jacket which would had to have been tailor made, so young was he…

Han did a fast double-take, then looked quickly away. But he hadn't missed the subtleties of it.

At first glance or to the uninitiated, the uniform was the same as any of the multitude of Special Commission Officers who milled about the palace: black, side-fastening jacket and pants, black boots. The first clue differentiating it from any other Special Commission uniform was the fact that it carried no rank, its only insignia a narrow silver bar to the edge of either side of the collar. Because of that, Han had peripherally taken in the fine black grossgrain trim on the edges of the jacket and the outer seam of the pants. They were subtle indicators, but then they were meant to be. Together, they identified their wearer as belonging to the apex of the Imperial Intel agency, the elite branch that supposedly acted in tandem with, but everyone knew actually existed in barely disguised rivalry to, the more visible Imperial Security Bureau.

Part military, part political in its power base, the infamous Ubiqtorate occupied the pinnacle of the Imperial power machine, its structure and numbers a closely guarded secret even within the regular military. They operated with absolute authority in both civilian and military sectors, their status unequalled. Always respected but seldom well-received, they were as likely to wear civilian clothes and melt into the background as they were to wade in and demand total control… And the kid was, what—fifteen?

Playing toy soldiers, Han reflected wryly. How could it be anything more?

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The vast ceiling of the outer waiting room was set with an ornate plaster circle within a square, painted with a muted rendition of rolled maps and old-fashioned octants, quadrants and astrolabes, gilded gold against dark midnight blue. The rest of the room was relentlessly austere, the high walls a dark, liver-red scagliola which made even the massive proportions of this room seem overbearing, its rows of plain ebony chairs lined with neat precision to either wall.

Han was still staring up at that incredible painted ceiling when Indo leaned closer, voice barely a murmur. "Let me make this very clear, Lieutenant Solo—you will do exactly as I tell you. You will follow my lead in all things. If I stand, you stand. If I bow, you bow. You will keep your head and your eyes down, and your mouth firmly shut, until you know what you are doing…which may be some time, I fear."

The Antilles kid half-turned, grinning. "And don't get into any conversations with the Moffs—you never know which one's about to sink without a trace, and if they go down, you don't want to get caught in the backwash."

Han glanced around at the assortment of serious rank and command insignia on display by men who milled about with stern, worried faces—so much so that Han didn't know who he was meant to acknowledge first.

Beside him, Indo murmured quietly. "Don't salute—unless one of them talks directly to you, which I very much doubt."

Luke had moved forward of them a little by now, heading directly for the tall doors to the far side of the crowded room, which were closed and watched over by two blue-robed guards. He didn't slow as he reached them, but at the last moment the two guards stood aside and he walked through the opening doors without comment, into an even larger chamber beyond.

Now _this_ was majestic, Han reflected. The kid's quarters were big, but they were cold and they were dark and they were somber. This was what a palace was supposed to look like. Easily three stories high, the vast oval room had a floor-to-ceiling run of tall, narrow windows along one side, the space between each window set with a towering reeded pillar in crimson-veined granite. Faceted leaded lights refracted the scarlet tones of the setting sun across a huge oval table, which echoed exactly the proportions of the room itself, obviously built specifically to fit. A series of dark portraits of vast proportions hung on the opposite wall, their inhabitants glaring imperiously down on those convened below, who encompassed the cream of Imperial military, the kind of uniforms that Han had never actually seen before, save in holopics.

Immediately they entered the room, Indo turning to his left, taking his place among a line of what looked like other aides, most of them in Imperial uniform. Still, they made plenty of space for the Viscount, shuffling back respectfully to either side. Han followed, having to fight a little to gain his place, giving a few quiet sorry's and 'scuse me's.

The kid, it seemed, had done exactly what he'd warned Han against, setting out across the lengthy room without slowing, weaving through the military brass who were gathered without sitting around that flawlessly polished oval table, arrayed with datapads and memo cards and other assorted proof that the room's inhabitants were industriously busy on the Empire's behalf. The kid nodded occasionally as he passed through them—even spoke to a few—then paused to lean on the edge of the table and study the big, complex holo of what looked like a set of schematics, lit up in 3D in the table's center.

Han leaned to the side, where Indo was watching intently. "So how come junior gets to rub shoulders with the brass?"

Indo didn't turn, his full attention remaining on Luke. "Firstly, don't call him junior. Secondly, he has years of knowledge of the political landscape at this high level, as well as in-depth knowledge of the personal and professional lives of everyone present. When you have that—and his rank—you can enter the floor."

"Rank?"

Indo's eyes, still on Luke, narrowed. "Did he just pick something up?"

Han scowled, turning back to the kid, who was moving away from the table now. Indo had taken a step forward, obviously intending to go after him, when the tall double-doors of the vast oval chamber opened again and two actual Red Guard walked in to stand to its sides—actual Red Guard! You never saw…

The hollow _tak_ of something hard against the stone floor seemed to reverberate somewhere in the center of Han's brain as everyone abruptly stood parade-ground straight.

The man who walked into the room, a gnarled but polished cane in his right hand, broke off any other thought Han had.

Dressed in robes of dark, rich brown, overstitched with heavy embroidery in black and blood-red, and wearing a ruby-red cowl, the cloaked man passed slowly, a slight stoop to his step… But he still had the presence to reduce that room of high-ranking, influential men to anxious silence—and Han with them.

The man didn't once look to the side, didn't deign to acknowledge anyone there as he walked slowly to the head of that long table, his face hidden in the shadows of his richly stitched cowl and silhouetted by the fading light of the tall windows…but every man in that room bowed low as he passed, and even Han didn't need any prompting from Indo to do the same. It just seemed…proper. An unspoken demand that required no further prompting.

An aide dutifully pulled out the carved chair at the head of the table and, still silhouetted from Han's viewpoint, the Emperor, the actual, real Emperor—and make no mistake, it was the man himself—sat.

At a nod of allowance from that heavy cowl, the officers about the table took their seats. Han almost sat then, but Indo's iron grip clutched at his arm and stopped him. It wasn't until all those about the table were seated that the aides about the sides of the room seemed able to do the same. Han was briefly seized by the sudden, absurd worry in the solemn atmosphere that he might miss the chair behind him and topple to the floor, bringing all eyes to him…but he made it just fine, letting out a silent sigh of relief, wondering why he felt so edgy.

He glanced again to the man who spoke in low, gravelly, demanding tones…yeah—that's why.

The tense, strained atmosphere never left the room, but eventually the meeting began to settle down to business and the straight-backed men about the table fell into discussion about some new piece of hardware and the problems therein—which seemed many and complicated. Han had stopped listening, instead glancing around the room with a slow shake of his head. Who'd've ever thought in a million years that Han Solo would get inside the Imperial palace—legitimately!

He was still congratulating himself when beside him, Indo let out a low, slow, worried word within an anxious groan. "No…."

Han turned, seeing that Indo was still watching the kid. Luke was in a chair whose back was against the tall windows, neither sitting with the brass nor to the back of the room with the aides, his seat almost level with the Emperor but well to the side. Seeming to pay little attention as the military's finest ran through their presentation, he was instead glancing around the room as if looking for something. Han scowled, wondering what the kid was doing… Then he noticed the stylus in his hand, and Gorn's warning came back to him: "_Don't ever give him a stylus…"_

On the massive oval desk, as well as datapads, there were neat sheaves of flimsiplast placed with careful precision in purpose-made, open topped boxes between every two people, and the kid's eyes had fallen on them. He straightened a little…and beside Han, Indo tensed.

"Luke…no." It was murmured so quietly that Han barely heard it…but bizarrely the kid glanced up to Indo.

Luke scowled, but settled back into his chair, glancing around again, clearly looking for something else. He looked briefly to the wall behind him, eyeing the long drapes of pale fabric which edged the tall bank of windows, and for the first time, Han heard the starched-straight Indo curse under his breath as he leaned forward, voice no more than a whisper but deadly serious. "Don't you dare…"

The kid stared for a few seconds longer, seeming to consider it…then sat back again, scanning the room. Failing anything else, after a moment or two, he turned his left hand palm-up and began to write on it with the stylus he held.

Beside Han, Indo's shoulders slouched in relief, the momentary panic clearly over. For the next two hours, as the brass discussed developments regarding some kind of super-weapon that Han had never heard of, the kid sat with the stylus. For a while, Han figured he must be making notes, though if that was the case, why exactly Indo had practically had a fit was a mystery. Whatever he was writing, eventually the kid seemed to have covered the palm of his hand, and began writing on the back, then moved up to his wrist, then—and this was weird— failing any other space, he wet his thumb and wiped his palm clean to start again…

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At the end of the meeting as the Emperor stood and dismissed his Generals, the kid quickly made to leave with the rest of the men present. But as he crossed to the side of the Emperor, a hand shot out from that dark robe and clutched at his arm. Beside Han, Indo stiffened, halting as the kid did. He took Han by the sleeve of his jacket, subtly guiding him to the door but remaining in the room. "Stand still and keep quiet."

The big chamber slowly emptied of officers and aides until only Han and Indo were left to one end of the huge room, with Luke and the Emperor at the other, the Emperor keeping hold of the kid's arm, which was now raised slightly as if in defense, as Luke remained immobile, eyes down.

When the doors finally closed, Palpatine dragged the kid around before him. "It seems you had trouble maintaining even the most fundamental level of concentration this evening."

"No, Master."

It was the first time Han had heard anything even approaching nerves in the kid's voice. The first time he'd seemed his age.

Hand still tight on the kid's arm, the Emperor's features remained hidden by distance and the shadows of his cowl, but his eyes…as he briefly tilted his head the light caught them, ochre yellow and almost glowing, completely focused on the kid he held.

"No? Where exactly did the prisoner riot originate?"

"Cell block twenty-one-eighty. That's a political block."

"Where did the firefights occur?"

"The hangars close to the station's equator."

"Specifically."

"Eighty-four-G, eighty-five-G and the superlaser's Fire Control Room."

"What were Lemelisk's revised degradation levels on the station's primary power?"

"Seven percent in orbit, two percent in deep space. Fifteen under battle conditions."

"Equatorial firepower?"

"Changed to forty guns per linear mile, a mix of low-range laser, pulsed turbolaser and ion turrets."

"How many manned?"

"Seventy percent can be manned. All can be changed over on a selective cluster configuration to the new Sienar predictive analysis system for auto-targeting."

"Distance of projectile shields from the surface?"

"Six hundred feet."

"Tiling rate?"

The kid hesitated—and the Emperor instantly released his wrist to launch a heavy backhand slap across his face, sufficient power behind it to make him stagger a step to the side.

Han stared, shocked, as Indo's hand tightened on the sleeve of his jacket, though the Viscount's eyes remained down, face calm as the Emperor railed at the kid, harsh voice openly scornful.

"You're useless to me—a waste of my time and effort. Stand up straight! Look at me when I speak to you!"

Luke straightened, chin rising beneath the Emperor's baleful glare.

Those pale eyes narrowed for long seconds before Palpatine spoke again, his tone dripping acerbic disapproval. "Always the disappointment, when I had such hopes for you. Weak little blue eyed boy…will you ever grow up?"

The kid remained stock still, back straight, face completely neutral as he held the Emperor's eyes. Han stared, riveted to the spot even without Indo's hand, unable to believe what he was seeing.

The Emperor turned away, dismissive. "Get out."

The kid bowed mechanically and backed up before turning to leave, face a perfect mask as he passed Han, eyes dead ahead, his cheek scarlet from the blow.

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It wasn't until they'd cleared several steps past the outer room, empty now save for Red Guards, that Han found his voice and turned on Indo. "Seriously, was that for real?"

Indo kept his eyes forward, rasping a quick, "Quiet!"

They walked several corridors in silence, Han still reeling from the shock of the Emperor's actions. Occasionally he glanced to the kid, who kept his head down, jaw tight. They were a good ten corridors away before Indo said calmly, "Tell me the tiling rate of the station's shields?"

The kid didn't turn. "Ninety-seven percent of total surface area."

"Luke, you can't dry up under pressure like that. You have to keep a clear head."

"I know."

"It gains you nothing and causes endless problems."

"I know."

"The one person you always need to impress…you'd never do this with anyone else."

"I know that."

Han couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Hey, lay off the kid. I'd've forgotten my own name if the guy was in my face like that!"

Indo turned on him. "That guy is His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor, and if you ever refer to him as anything else in my presence again I shall have you court-martialled, do you understand?"

"Fine, whatever. That's just one more fact to add to my 'guaranteed memory meltdown' scenario."

Luke glanced to Han, face laced with confusion, and Han wondered in that moment whether anyone here actually stood up for the kid, ever.

Certainly Indo seemed more put out by Han's validation of the kid's actions than what had just happened as a consequence. "Thank you for your considered opinion, Lieutenant Solo. However, Luke has lived here practically all his life. The Emperor is his mentor and his Master, and Luke has lived under his roof and his guidance every day for many years—" he turned to the kid, voice stern but calm, "and so he should no longer make that kind of error—ever."

"There were three hundred-eleven changes to the schematics this time," the kid said, irked. "Three hundred-eleven! Does that sound like a near-operational battle station to you…or does it sound like someone trying desperately to cover over the cracks? And why do I have to remember them anyway? I'm never going near the damn thing again. This is all just part of Tarkin's little play for power. The Tarkin Doctrine." He said the last as a disbelieving aside, voice scornful.

Han frowned. "Tarkin Doctrine?"

Luke turned, his hand briefly going to his face where Palpatine had struck it. "An exercise in the blindingly obvious written by a man blinded by his own ambition."

"Are you saying that the Emperor is wrong in his ratification of the document?" Indo asked calmly.

"No!" Shock and denial were evident in the speed at which the kid replied, before his voice calmed a little. "No, I'm not saying the Emperor is wrong—of course I'm not. I'm saying that Tarkin's as guilty of political opportunism as those he criticizes. I'm saying that his battle station is too big to possibly police its construction, let alone its actions in pitch battle. He couldn't even put down a riot in his own detention center… No one even knows if partial plans were transmitted, or who to—it was a fiasco!"

"Have you spoken of your concerns with the Emperor?"

Luke glanced down, silenced, and they walked on for a while before Indo spoke out again. "You'll spend an extra two hours tonight going over the minutes of the meeting and the changes to the schematics."

"What?"

Han too turned his head. "What!"

Luke glanced to Han, amused at their shared dismay. Han was granted a less-than-impressed glare from Indo though, who had clearly expected Han to back him up rather than side with Luke, before he turned back to the kid.

"Unless you'd like to face the Emperor equally unprepared tomorrow, you will take the time to learn this—because I can guarantee you that he will quiz you further the next time he sees you."

"Fine," the kid said, resigned.

They reached the Red Room in the apartment before Indo spoke again, his tone as businesslike as ever. "Go and change—I'll have dinner sent up, and the information transferred to your datapad in the library." He paused to lift Luke's wrist. Han saw a glimpse of his hand and realized that the kid hadn't been writing on it at all, as he'd assumed. Instead, for a split second, drawn in fine black ink on the kid's palm, Han saw a scratchy sketch of the nervous faces of two of the Moffs who'd been sitting opposite the kid at the table earlier. On the back of his hand as Indo turned it, was another sketch of one of the Red Guard who had been standing by the door.

"And wash that off," Indo said dismissively.

The kid took his hand back and walked forward to his own rooms without comment.

"Luke?" Indo's tone softened. "Do you want ice for your cheek?"

"No, it's fine."

"Luke?"

The kid paused, and Indo took a step towards him, hand out. "Stylus, please?"

Luke sighed and shook his arm…and the stolen stylus dropped from his sleeve. He passed it over without comment before continuing on alone into the gloom of his private rooms, the door closing behind him.

Indo watched until the kid had gone, before turning to walk away without comment, leaving Han to stand alone in the empty grandeur of the cold, dark enfilade.

"Crazy," he muttered, as he headed back to the relative comfort of the small office to the front of the apartment. "Absolutely crazy."

.

.

.

"Medication." Indo spoke without further explanation as he walked into the library.

Han had come down there ten minutes ago when Indo had commed the staff office to check that there was someone sitting with the kid to make sure he was studying whilst Indo was out of the apartment, and Gorn had informed the viscount that of course there was, at the same time gesticulating wildly for Han to go find Luke.

He'd found him exactly where he should be, elbows leaned on the wide library table, which was spread with several datapads, an assortment of datacards, and even what looked like three authentic fossils in a dark red stone. Underneath the nearest were what appeared to be the smashed remains of several more datacards, their fragmented pieces ground into the flawless glasslike sheen of the polished wooden desktop. Han had glanced at them a few seconds, but made no further comment. Seeing no point in getting involved when he fully intended to be out of here at the first opportunity, he'd simply sat down, giving a brief half-shrug when the kid had looked to him from under unruly bangs.

"Indo sent me," Han had said simply.

"Of course," the kid muttered dryly, turning back to his datapad.

They'd sat in silence for a few minutes before the kid started scrabbling around the remaining datacards and pulled one out, having to put his thumbprint to it for clearance when it was loaded into the datapad. "Here. Communiqué ten-forty-four point nine-two: The Tarkin Doctrine."

"What's that?"

"What I was talking about earlier—Grand Moff Tarkin's rewriting of the glaringly obvious. Palpatine gave him command of the Outer Rim Territories Oversector for it."

Han looked uneasily at the datapad. "Should I be seeing that?"

"No," the kid said. "You want to read it or not?"

Unable to resist, Han took the datapad and scanned the document, ignoring the kid's amused comment of, "You are such a pushover."

.

_To: His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Palpatine  
From: Governor Tarkin, Seswenna Sector, Eriadu  
Regarding: Increasing the security of the Empire._

_Your Majesty,_

_It has recently come to my attention that what had previously been the quiet grumbling of malcontents on backwater worlds has become dissidence in more civilized systems …_

Uneasy at looking in the first place, Han began skip-reading,

…_Imperial Fleet … all-encompassing … swift, systematic response to rebellion… respond to threats quickly … bypass any delays caused by political opportunism … _

Average stuff, Han thought—nothing new. It was about here that he slowed though, feeling his throat constrict as phrases started jumping out:

… _rule through the fear of force … cow thousands of worlds … one undeniable and overwhelming symbol … a weapon so powerful … subjugate a thousand worlds … force enough to dispatch an entire system, power enough to shatter planets … let fear keep systems in line … _

_I am ready to begin work to implement these steps at your word._

.

Han looked up to see the kid watching him closely. He glared back down at the datapad. "Seriously, you believe this crock?"

Luke shrugged. "The Emperor does. Clearly he can read something of value between the lines."

Han slid the datapad back onto the wide desk. "Yeah, I can't see it myself."

The kid grinned. "Maybe that's why he's Emperor and you're not."

"Is this guy for real?"

"Tarkin? His ego's about as overinflated as his ambition, but he's serious."

"What the hell is he even…" Han straightened. "The superweapon! It's the one they were talking about in the meeting today!"

"It's codenamed the Death Star."

… _Power enough to shatter planets… _

"They've actually built this?"

The kid nodded casually. "They've built it."

… _one undeniable and overwhelming symbol…_

"Does it work?"

Luke took back the datapad, shrugging. "They've already fired the PoC near Kessel."

"The what?"

"PoC—proof of concept. The superlaser capable of destroying planets." He said this as if it were nothing, quickly taking the conversation back to his original reason. "The point is, Tarkin seriously thinks that just because he can build some scaled down skeletal shell, he can deliver the real thing and make it capable of offensive and defensive action. But the real thing has fifteen thousand laser cannons, a hypermatter reactor, twenty-four command hubs… They've been making literally hundreds of changes week in, week out. This thing has one-hundred-twenty-three hyperdrive field generators tied into a single navigational matrix, just to make it move. Proof of concept isn't proof of viability. Tarkin's a military strategist, but his ego's too big for him to hand control of this project over to specialists like Sienar or Kuat. Instead, to keep it secret, he's farming it out piecemeal, with no one company viewing the whole project, whilst Tarkin's relying on a small group of specialists who are, and I can tell you this for a fact because I've met them, basically scared for their jobs, their careers and their lives. As many problems as they're highlighting when they finally get these systems together from all these separate contractors, how likely do you think it is that they're bringing the really big ones to him—the ones that could take months or even years to iron out? They have major power issues; that superlaser they're so proud of can only fire a full pulse off once every twenty-four hours and the hypermatter reactor and the field generators eat so much power that the shields can only tile at ninety-seven percent of surface area. Those are problems _I_ can see—me!"

"You think it won't work?"

"I think they'll be able to point it at something and fire it off. I think they'll be able to move a lot of troops on it and launch them from what's basically the most expensive military platform ever built. Beyond that…"

Han waited, but the kid didn't say more. He wondered, for all the things Indo had checked and re-checked that the kid knew…had he asked the one relevant point? "Do you think it's right?"

"Right?"

"To build something like this—something capable of this kind of destruction."

Luke's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Palpatine does. That's enough for me."

"It's not a trick question, I'm just asking what you think."

"I think Palpatine's the Emperor, which means he's the one you should ask that of…but of course, you shouldn't ask. He's the Emperor—you do as he tells you."

"But I'm asking you," Han maintained doggedly. "What if your finger's on that button?"

.

.

"Medication."

Indo's arrival forestalled any further discussion, the Viscount's eyes narrowing momentarily as he looked from the kid to Han. Luke had already reached swiftly out to pull the datacard from the pad before the door was fully open, so that by the time Indo entered, Luke's head was resting in his hands as he stared coolly at some random screen, tufts of pale blond hair sticking every which way through his fingers.

Indo stepped forward, placing down the glass of water he carried to lift the fossil and look at the broken datacards beneath. For the first time, Han realized that the kid had been using one of the sharper fragments to score into the table's polished surface the image of a woman, her features no more than a scratched outline.

Indo used the side of the fossil to push at the shattered datacards. "What were these?"

"I believe they were phacopida from the Devonian period on Chad," the kid said dryly without looking up.

"I mean the datacards, not the fossils."

"That I don't know…I was bored. I assume that somebody used a hammer at some point to get our old phacopidas here out of the ground…I thought it was only fair that they get their turn at hammering something else."

Indo's eyes flicked to Han, who straightened slightly. "Hey, they were like that when I got here."

With a final glance to the ruined datacards, Indo put three small blue pills onto the table beside Luke. "Tablets."

"I don't need them tonight."

"In that case, what difference does it make if you take them?" There was a no-nonsense tone to Indo's voice which indicated that this was a regular nightly contention.

Luke looked up, eyes full of mischief. "Sneaky. Is this some kind of reverse-psychology thing to baffle me?"

"No, this is a higher concept, it's called the truth. Take your tablets." Indo lifted the glass of water and held it out. The kid hesitated a moment, so that Han thought he might make a go of it, then sighed and took the three small tablets, placing them on his datapad screen.

Han watched, fascinated, as Luke spent long moments arranging them in a neat, straight line, taking care to position them equidistantly, eyes half-closed in judgment whilst Indo waited without comment, as if this too were a nightly routine. Finally, Luke took the glass and took all three in quick succession, a brief gulp of water between each.

"Mouth," Indo said simply, and the kid opened his mouth as Indo leaned forward, clearly checking he'd actually swallowed them.

The ritual over, Indo walked across the room to settle on a chair. "Have you downloaded and read the minutes of the meeting?"

"I'm doing it now."

Indo stared for a few seconds. "I presume you've already done your compulsory reading?"

"Yes."

"To chapter seventeen?"

"Yes."

"Did you finish your coursework?"

"Yes."

"Languages?"

"Languages are coursework," the kid replied without looking up.

"Did you complete them?"

"Yes."

"Astrophysics?"

"Astrophysics is also coursework."

"All nine pages?"

"Yes."

"Did you write the debrief report for Admiral Dern?"

"Yes."

"Have you eaten supper?"

"Leave me alone." It was said quietly and without hostility, but somehow the kid seemed to get across the point that he meant it, and Indo fell silent, activating his own datapad without further comment.

Han stifled a grin, aware that he would've gotten antsy after the first question. Still, now that he'd actually seen them together, they seemed to have a relaxed, if businesslike manner between them, comfortable without being familiar. There was an ease to it though, a palpable informality. Based on what Gorn had said, maybe the Viscount was the only constant in the kid's life—beside the Emperor, of course. And having finally met him, Han wasn't at all sure if that was a good thing.

.

.

.

When he rose to return to the staff room, Gorn was still there, sitting at his desk despite the late hour.

"Indo's on the kid's case again already," Han said as he walked in.

Gorn shrugged. "Indo's always on the kid's case—it's what he does."

"Maybe if he gave him a break occasionally, the kid wouldn't be so much of a problem."

"Ah, go easy on the guy, he's had it pretty hard, from what I've heard."

"What have you heard?" Han asked. You could always rely on Gorn to know the gossip.

This time though, Gorn didn't smile. "You know his wife died in childbirth, right?"

Han straightened slightly. "I didn't even know he'd been married, let alone that he has a kid."

"He doesn't. His son died, about five years ago. Only child."

"Really?" Han actually felt a pang of sympathy.

Gorn nodded, glancing to the door as he lowered his voice further. "He was fourteen. Indo had dedicated a huge amount of time and effort to him, using this intensive syllabus system. Got him through the best schools, with the best grades—had great plans for him. Eventually Dubrail—that was his name—Dubrail earned a place at the J. Aubrey Academy on Corulag. You heard of it?"

"No."

" '_The Inter-Planetary Academy of Excellence in Leadership,'_ that's what it styles itself—and it's not exaggerating. It's basically the fast-track to a serious high-end career in the military. I'm talking Admiral or Moff by your forties, that kind of level. They take about a hundred candidates a year, all boarding, and let me tell you, they have the choice of the absolute best. Places are incredibly hotly contested—I once heard the application rate was over three hundred per place. That's basically everyone who can make the grade. Dubrail made it with flying colors, in the top ten percent on the entry, and stayed up there every test, they say. I mean the kid was made—he had it all, his whole life lining neatly up in front of him, everything Indo wanted for him. A year and a half later he was dead." Gorn shook his head. "Fourteen years old…tragic waste. Indo took it really hard—who wouldn't? Kid was his life, he did everything to get Dubrail ahead, moved mountains, you know? Then just like that he was gone. Indo was..."

It was barely a noise, but Han reacted all the same with a quick jerk of his head, letting Gorn know someone was outside. A second later Indo entered, that sabacc face perfectly in place as he looked to Gorn.

"May I presume that Lieutenant Commander Ashtor is on duty tonight?"

Gorn straightened. "Yes, Sir. He starts in…"

"He started five minutes ago—or rather, his shift did. Inform him that I will make a note of such in the log, and I expect him to remain behind to inform me of his reasons tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Sir."

Indo glanced to Han. "You are dismissed, Lieutenant Solo. Lieutenant Commander Gorn, please remain until Lieutenant Commander Ashtor arrives, and ensure that the office is sufficiently secure on your departure—I trust you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant Solo…"

Han paused on his way out; he hadn't seriously expected to get past anyway.

"May I assume that you have already signed a non-disclosure contract on entering the palace?"

"I dunno. I pretty much signed my life, my liberty and most of my vital organs over to the military when I joined, if that's what you mean."

Indo smiled dryly. "In the meeting today, you were privy to highly sensitive military material—information that could compromise the security of the State. It will not be the last time. You appreciate that whilst here, you will be expected to comport yourself with exceptional discretion…in every way."

"Meaning?"

Indo held his gaze without blinking. "You know where the library is, Lieutenant Solo—you're free to use it to look any of those words up, should you feel the need."

Han held the Viscount's eye for long seconds, his brief burst of compassion for the guy already spent…but it was late and he was tired, and it would be so very easy to pick an argument right now—and he was betting Indo knew it.

In the end, he gave a brief lopsided grin and walked away, reflecting on Gorn's claim this morning that two years would secure Han's much-wanted promotion. Seriously, he'd be lucky to make it two months…

.

.

.

Watching the Corellian closely, Viscount Indo stepped back in invitation as Lieutenant Solo hesitated for a moment…then walked through the staffroom door and headed for the main exit. Indo stared after him, eyes narrowed. He disliked Corellians at the best of times. They tended towards stubbornness in the face of recognized authority and rules, which was hardly conducive to palace living, and certainly not a suitable role-model for an already unruly and impulsive Luke Antilles.

It was no easy feat to begin with, to hold the boy steady beneath both Palpatine and Vader's critical eye. It had taken unorthodox methods at times, but he had done it—still did it, every day. And now, having achieved the near impossible, he was loathed to have a new face come in here and begin to rock the whole, precarious structure.

But Indo would wait this one out. He could, of course, have the Corellian removed tomorrow, should he so wish. Could have him marched from the palace tonight—or simply 'disappeared'… But he wouldn't. Luke had gone to the trouble of actually breaking into the military hub down in the palace's main ziggurat in order to track down a man he had met for only a few hours because, as he had argued when Indo had confronted him with the magically appearing commission documents on the day of Solo's arrival, he trusted him—or he thought he could.

So for Indo to step in now was obviously ill-advised, if he didn't want Solo to become a bone of contention between himself and Luke. That would be quite unacceptable—and quite unnecessary.

The Corellian would, Indo very much suspected, quickly prove to be an undesirable influence on Luke…and then he would be removed one way or another, as so many others had been, at the Emperor's convenience.

And Indo would have done nothing. His hands—and just as importantly around Luke, his mind—would be clean, and Luke's frustrations and anger aimed elsewhere. Which would enable Indo to maintain that all-important stability…here, at least. And after a few weeks, a month perhaps, the dust would settle and old routines would hold sway again. Until next time.

In the meantime, Solo was a minor inconvenience, another face which would come and go. There had been many over the years; the Emperor had seen to that. Providing stability for Luke—or indeed any sense of reassurance or continuity—was the last thing on the Emperor's agenda.

And Luke…well the boy had no concept of such anyway, so he didn't miss what he had never learned to expect. The deaths of Bail and Breha Organa—and Indo was one of the very few who knew the facts of the Organa's supposed assassination—had left the boy to face the trials of growing up without the protection that their position could have afforded him. Though perhaps even that had been an illusion. Once the Emperor had found him, Indo suspected that the outcome for Luke would have been much the same whatever his lineage. Certainly the boy had been quickly disassociated from any link to his heritage as Bail Organa's heir, in order to ensure his invisibility, and therefore his usefulness.

Luke had been forced to find his own way under Palpatine's uncompromising authority, harsh lessons indelibly written into an impressionably young mind. Yet the boy was blindly loyal and utterly dedicated despite, or perhaps because of, all that Palpatine had done. He felt no gratitude towards his mentor—it was, after all, Palpatine's fault that he was here and alone in the first place, and Luke knew it—but formative years beneath the Emperor's manipulations had left Luke desperate to please a man whom he was now old enough to realize would only ever find him lacking. A fact which had only fed Luke's recklessness as he grew.

For his own part, Indo had recognized his place in the scheme of things very early on, just as the boy had known his, clarified by the Emperor with his customary cutting accuracy and effect, no allowance made for the child's age.

Indo had been the stabilizer here, he knew. The constant. His duties, when they had finally been engaged, had been clearly laid down by the Emperor, and Indo had held assiduously to them—and because of that, had remained when so many others had been removed from the boy's life. Or perhaps it was the fact that, like Saté pestage, who also knew the connection between the silent, huddled little ragamuffin of those first few years, and the assassinated heir to Alderaan's throne, Indo also knew the value of silence.

He was, essentially, a tutor. A guardian, charged with taking an eleven-year-old boy who had received no formal education and no real contact with the outside world for four long years, having lost even the most basic social skills and parameters under Palpatine's close influence, and easing him back into the galaxy.

There were very few who would even remember the unknown, pitiably neglected boy under Palpatine's control in those early years, let alone associate him with the capable young man in the black Ubiqtorate uniform, after four years of Indo's influence. Perhaps that was the truth of why Indo had been allowed to remain when so many others had come and gone: he was very, very good at his job.

Though there remained flaws in his charge. Luke had lost not only his childhood to Palpatine, but his adolescence to the strict rules and conventions which Indo had set in place in an attempt not simply to educate him, but to provide the structure and stability which Luke had needed to survive. Even now, Luke could shift from composed to fractious in the space between heartbeats, or fall into the silent, insular unresponsiveness of his childhood for days at a time…though more recently, he'd found a new way to level and numb the peaks and troughs…

Long years of history that Solo didn't understand—probably didn't even care about. He simply objected, as a knee-jerk response, to the boy's close supervision and way of life without bothering to understand why. He had no idea of what Indo had done for the boy. Of what he did every day, to hold Luke together. To give him, if not actual protection—no one could offer that—then at least a method of coping.

It hadn't always been the case, though Indo had had his reasons.

He had first seen Luke as a frightened child, immediately after Bail and Breha Organa's assassination. At the time, with the whole palace in uproar, Indo hadn't even known who the boy brought to his quarters was, no connection mentioned between the assassination and the young child in Saté Pestage's possession. Few in the palace had even known that Bail and Breha Organa's son and heir was there in the first place; he had attended not a single function during the three-day event.

Why exactly Indo had been chosen as opposed to any other, he didn't know to this day. At the time Indo had, of course, never once met the Emperor in person. He had begun to attend Court only because of his ambitions for his own son, Dubrail, who had already begun to excel in reward for Indo's intensive efforts at education, feeding Indo's hopes of an auspicious career for him. Perhaps he had been chosen because it was known in Court that Dubrail was approximately the same age as Luke, or perhaps because of his successes with Dubrail's education, or simply that his ambitions for his son were clear.

Whatever, Indo remembered vividly the shock which had been hard to hide when he had answered the summons to his apartment door in the lower ziggurat, to see the Emperor's major-domo Saté Pestage standing there…with a child.

Still wearing the heavy formal robes and mult-layered headdress of Court, Pestage had walked immediately into Indo's apartments, the small child being practically dragged along by the wrist, blond curly hair bobbing above sun-tanned skin, half-running to keep up, half struggling to pull free.

The boy had been passed immediately over with only the briefest of explanation, more emphasis placed on the importance of Indo's silence in the upcoming days—at the Emperor's direct command—than on whom the child was or why he was in Pestage's possession. As he had made to leave, Pestage had taken one last opportunity to underline the importance of Indo's silence, and mention had been made of Dubrail—of the boy's prospects. Indo had no idea whether it had been a promise or a threat…but either way, he'd understood the rules of the game.

He'd had little hands-on experience with children this young. In the absence of a mother, his own son had been cared for on a day-to-day basis by trained professionals, who presumably had an interest in such things. Indo had taken an interest in Dubrail's mind, not his material needs. Still, it hadn't taken long for him to realize that the poor child delivered to his door was traumatized almost beyond words.

Uncertain what to do and with Pestage's stipulation of discretion still ringing in his ears, Indo had sent down to the kitchens for food, which the boy had not touched, before, baffled and unsure what else one was supposed to do with children, Indo had taken the boy to the guest suite in his own apartment.

He was, of course, vaguely aware that one was not supposed to leave such a young child without supervision, but had no idea just what such 'supervision' entailed. So he had taken the boy to the guest suite, indicated where the en-suite refresher was, pointed out the bed, and then left, locking him in, aware that he was in reality doing no more to comfort the child than anyone else seemed to have done.

Just before midnight, Indo had returned to check on the boy, to find him still in almost the exact spot he had been left over three hours earlier, crouched down beside the doorway, arms wrapped about his knees. Though he doubted that the boy would sleep, Indo had ordered him to bed, the young boy so small and the rather grand bed so high that a deeply uncomfortable Indo had been required to lift the child up onto it at arms' length.

Pestage had returned in the morning. Not to check on the boy himself, but that Indo had done nothing to reveal the boy's existence. When Indo had unlocked the door, it was to again find the child exactly as he'd left him, huddled up against the head of the bed, fully dressed, eyes swollen and red from crying. Coolly unmoved, Pestage had leaned in closely to look the still-tearful child up and down, then had left without once speaking to him, advising Indo to do the same and to keep the door locked.

As the day had passed, Indo had occasionally heard sobs from the room but seldom entered, unsure what to do even if he had. He took the boy food which wasn't eaten, and tried first ordering him to silence then patting him a few times in vague reassurance… Nothing made any difference.

Should Indo have made the connection at the time? There was no reason to. Early that morning the palace had publicly confirmed the assassination of the Alderaanian Royal Family in a statement that assigned blame for the attack to the fledgling Rebellion, stating that there were _no survivors_. It had occurred to him, of course, to wonder if the boy was connected to the previous night's events—perhaps the son of an injured guard that Pestage had known—but his attempts to gain anything from the traumatized child were fruitless. The boy remained uncommunicative, either staring into the middle distance or sobbing near-silently, eyes dry now, no tears left.

It was four more days before the Alderaanian Royal House had acknowledged that the Sovereigns' only son and heir had also been on Coruscant, and killed in the assassination.

Then Indo had seen the images—_then_ he had made that connection…and then, he had recognized that it was already too late. He could of course have spoken out. If he had thought that it would have changed anything, perhaps he might have. But by that time, the Emperor had already claimed the boy, and had made it very clear to Indo that his continued 'favor'—and by extension, his son's future—rested on Indo's silence about the boy's heritage.

In fact, Palpatine had sent for the boy the following evening after his arrival. Saté Pestage had returned to Indo's apartments well into the evening, with an unnecessary accompaniment of four Red Guard and a command from the Emperor that he would see the child now. With him, he had brought clothes of a far lower quality than the boy presently wore…and a set of powered clippers. Pestage had ordered the still wide-awake boy to dress, before ordering Indo from the room. When the boy had emerged, pulled forward by the shoulder of his new clothes, his eyes were still red as he'd stared blankly down at the floor before him, his mop of pale hair shorn rough and short.

They walked immediately to the Throne Room, escorted by the Red Guard, passing without pause through the Attendants' Hall, which was as far as Indo had ever previously been, even after five years of Court attendance. Indo had been left with the silent child in the Waiting Room under the close study of Palpatine's scarlet-clad guards, trying to ignore the shallow breaths of the boy who pressed against his leg. It had occurred to him only then that he may be delivering a lamb to the wolves. He'd glanced down at the young boy, who looked up at him in silence, red-rimmed eyes full of trepidation, hair shorn so short that Indo could see where the teeth of the clippers had grazed his scalp, and had felt some helpless need to give hollow reassurance in the face of the child's nerves.

"This is the Emperor," Indo had said, aware that his own nervousness was making his manner unintentionally curt, and the boy more nervous than ever. "Bow when I do, and don't speak unless you're spoken to. Remember this and everything will be all right."

Then the imposing floor-to-ceiling doors had swept open and the assemblage of cold, calculating, curious faces had turned towards them, necks craning for a better view as the boy shrank back. Worried that he might turn and run, Indo had reached down intending to take the boy's wrist and was surprised when a small hand had grasped his like a lifeline.

Momentarily touched by the action, Indo leaned quickly down to whisper his last advice. "Don't show your fear."

It had taken a hard tug to pull the child forward. They came to a halt to the center of the shadowed chamber, the boy very quiet and still, his eyes on the Emperor. He hadn't bowed when Indo had, though he'd stayed very close. Indo remembered shaking his hand free of the boy's, and having felt instantly and uncharacteristically guilty for doing so.

Eventually, after an uncomfortable, protracted silence, Palpatine had risen and walked forward, eyes never leaving the boy, who had surprisingly held his ground as Indo had backed up two steps. Reaching out, Palpatine had taken the child's chin in one pale hand, lifting his face, long nails pressing to tanned skin.

"So this is the boy who requires a patron." The Emperor's thin smile bared pitted, yellowed teeth as he leaned in over the child. "You look very much like your father."

Indo distinctly remembered frowning, uncertain, because it had seemed clear from this that the Emperor knew the boy. Perhaps he should have realized more in the course of the short conversation. Certainly, he had known that something was amiss when the Emperor's words had implied that the boy had been brought to Court by Indo himself, seeking the Emperor's sponsorship. But apprehensive himself, and having no intention of challenging his Emperor or making an enemy of the likes of Saté Pestage, Indo had seen no reason to contradict.

In retrospect—and Indo was one of the very few who knew that even Luke's hidden connection to the Alderaanian Royal House of Organa was by adoption, not birthright, and the boy was actually the son of a renegade Jedi—Luke looked, then and now, a good deal like his father. Perhaps it was this which had always galled the Emperor so.

At the time, Indo's whole attention had been taken when the child, who had been shock-silent in all his time with Indo, had taken a half-step forward, the most forthright Indo had seen him since his arrival.

A momentary flare of hope had sounded in the child's voice, hoarse from crying. "Where is he?"

The Emperor had tilted his head, glancing once to Indo as if it had been he who had furnished the Emperor with the truth. "I am sorry, child—you are alone now. You know that."

"I want to go home," the boy had said quietly, hands wrapped one within the other and pressed nervously to his chest as he looked to the only man he believed had the power to help him.

Instead, Palpatine had turned to walk slowly away, taking his time to settle once more on his throne, those sharp ochre-yellow eyes studying the anxious boy.

It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did so, it was with absolute finality. "This is your home now. Everything which passed before is gone. You will stay here, with me."

Something had prickled at the back of Indo's neck at the threat implicit in those words, and he had made his one and only attempt at rescue, reaching down to take the boy's shoulder protectively. "Forgive me, Excellency—the boy is still very young to remain in…"

"He will stay with me." Palpatine had not looked to Indo, nor changed his tone in the slightest, but Indo had known with absolute certainty that the boy was lost…and released his grip. As he had done so, the child had backed up to grasp the fabric of Indo's gown, suddenly very afraid, though he couldn't have understood the import of the words.

"Court will retire, for tonight," the Emperor had announced, finally looking up from the boy.

Courtiers had bowed in reverential silence and filed in quiet rows from his presence, until only Indo and the boy remained in the magnificent chamber, facing Palpatine and Pestage, Red Guards at the doors.

As the Courtiers had left, Indo had considered his options, though he'd known he had few.

Either he could object and be forcibly separated from the boy—and probably expelled from Court, which would injure his own son's standing here irrevocably…or he could turn around and walk meekly from the room, leaving the unknown child at the mercy of the Emperor, which in truth he was anyway. That much was clear.

At least, Indo had reflected, if he did nothing and so remained in Court, he could keep an eye on the child, if only from a distance.

He was rationalizing, and even then, he had known it. But in truth there was no choice to make. The Emperor's will was absolute—if he wanted control of the child, then he would take him.

Bowing deeply, Indo had taken three backward steps before he had turned and walked calmly to the door, hearing Palpatine mutter to Pestage as he did so.

The boy, of course, had tried to follow, almost reaching the door before Pestage had caught up with him from the shadows, grabbing him from behind and causing him to shout out in shock.

Indo hadn't paused, hadn't turned…he'd simply kept on walking without looking back, the child's frantic cries echoing in his ears long after the actual sounds were faded by distance.

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my website, where there's a little extra at the end of each chapter - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page, or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	4. Chapter 4

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**CHAPTER FOUR**

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Han glanced down the main enfilade and back to the entrance of the apartment. Indo wasn't about, so Han was comfortable enough here after six weeks that he took a lungful of air and yelled at the top of his voice, "Luke? _LUKE!"_

Gorn came out from a side corridor at a run, eyes wide. "Geez, Solo—I think Indo probably heard that in his own apartment."

"You found him?" Han asked.

"Nope…you?"

"Yeah, that's why I'm hollering his name like this." He noticed as he spoke that the wide double-doors out onto the Red Room's narrow balcony—more a decorative feature than an actual useable space—were just slightly ajar, and walked over, muttering under his breath.

Sure enough, sitting in silence on the stone floor and creasing the freshly pressed dress suit that Indo had brought up an hour earlier, was Luke Antilles.

Han pulled the doors open. "Don't even try to say that you didn't hear me shouting."

"I heard you," the kid replied without looking. In the fading dusk, the bright tip of a spice stick glowed as he drew on it, a curl of scarlet smoke rising momentarily before it was taken by the wind. Ruby, they called it, because the small, resin-bound crystals, which could be smoked or eaten, were a deep, translucent red.

"You're kidding me, right?" Han said. "Does Indo know you're doing this?"

The kid still didn't look up. "Why don't you scuttle off and tell him."

"Why don't you just put the damn thing out so I don't have to. C'mon, you know the rules around here, what am I supposed to do?"

The kid only looked up at Han and took another long draw. Sighing, Han glanced back inside, then stepped out and sat down on the narrow strip of cold stone floor beside him. "Where do you even get this stuff?"

"The magic spice pixy leaves it under my pillow when I'm a good boy. What do you care?"

Han ignored that completely. "Is that why you sneak out all the time to the cantinas—to pick it up?"

"Nope."

"Where d'you get it then?"

The kid didn't speak, and Han sighed, looking out into the dusk. "You know the last guy you got it off, Count Sofani, he ended up in detention."

"I'll try to muster up a little remorse sometime," the kid replied dryly, eyes on the horizon.

"Hey, the guy got bankrupted and thrown in detention for giving you this stuff!"

"Please—you don't know what he was expecting in return."

Han turned sharply, and the kid shrugged. "No, I didn't. But remember that next time you're passing judgment so freely with half the facts."

"What are the whole facts then?"

"The ones you need to know?" The kid looked skyward in feigned consideration. "Let's see… Well, generally speaking, you don't cross me and I won't cross you…unless I take a personal dislike to you, of course. In which case, it's open season."

"You're all heart."

"Really?" The kid took another long pull on the spice stick. "'Cos most people say I'm all mouth, and I'm pretty sure I can't be both."

"Yeah, actually, I'll go with the mouth thing," Han said. "Seriously, do you really need that thing right now? I ask because you're supposed to be at this…whatever… dinner-convention-ball thing in a half-hour, and from what little I've seen, I'd lay credits down that old yellow eyes doesn't take kindly to latecomers."

"Old yellow eyes?" It made the kid grin at least, his expression just a fraction less guarded. "It's a reception, and have you ever been to one of these things?"

"Hell no."

"Well then, we're back to you not having all the facts, which means you get no say. I've been attending them since I was thirteen, and yes, I can state categorically that I really, really need this right now." The kid's eyes remained on Han for a few seconds more, as if sizing him up. "I'll tell you what though, I'll trade you—you can have the spice stick…"

Han held out his hand expectantly as the kid continued…

"…if you come along tonight."

Han yanked back his hand, and the kid raised his eyebrows knowingly, his expression way too worldly. "Ah, see, not quite as eager any more, are you? Think about what's going through your head right now, Solo. Just how much you don't want to go to some pointless assemblage of dry old men with too many medals, who've talked and talked and talked for so long that they don't even remember what it was like to actually be on the ground with their own soldiers any more—if they ever were in the first place. And we're just talking about the one night here—myself, I've attended easily a couple of hundred of these tortures. That's why I need the spice stick."

"Yeah, but this is, y'know, the kinda stuff you do."

"That doesn't mean I like it."

"No, but since you've done a couple of hundred, I'm assuming that at least you're used to it."

Luke took another long draw on the spice stick, staring at Han through the wisps of red smoke. "You're absolutely right, I see what you're saying here—it _is_ about time you got used to them too."

"Me! I didn't say anything of the…"

The kid grinned into Han's panic. "Pull out your dress suit, Solo."

"Wait, Indo does those things with you. I don't wanna go stepping on his toes."

"From what I've seen, you don't seem too concerned any other time."

"I'm the wrong person for this," Han said emphatically. "Not only do I not know what to do, I don't even care."

"As Palpatine said to me two years ago, it's about time you learned."

"But…this stuff's useful to you, you live in this world. Me, it's wasted on."

"Where exactly do you live and work, Solo?"

"Yeah, but that's just until I get outta here."

The kid rose, all business. "Yeah, I've been waiting for the same thing since I was seven. Don't hold your breath."

"Seriously, I don't belong here—at all! Why don't you give this commission to someone who wants to be here?"

"And why would I do that?"

"C'mon, there are people who actually, genuinely want this job. Requisition one of them—make their year."

"Do I seem like the kind of person who generally goes around looking for ways to make anyone's year?"

"Now's a good time to start. They might even like you for it."

"I don't need to be liked. I've lived this long without it and I get along just fine. Now put your jacket on, polish your boots, and get ready for a fight."

"Fight?" Han stood, his face twisting into a lopsided frown. "I thought we were going to a dinner?"

Luke shrugged, jutting his chin to indicate the palace behind him as he took a final pull on the spice stick, burning it back to the stump before he flicked it out into the darkness. "Around here, it's the same thing."

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The reception hall was a long, narrow room with ebony floors and lofty walls dressed with dark, heavy slabs of polished stone, whose spans of stark splendor stretched high above to the midnight blue curves of a ribbed and ridged ceiling. To each end of the solemn and magnificent space was the vaulted semicircle of a massive apse, each lined in dark mercury mosaic, their muted tones reflecting fragmented slivers of those who passed beneath.

Commanding completely one of those huge domed apses was a tribune—a raised dais set apart from the hall and the hordes below, its insinuation clear. Sitting on a heavy, carved seat in regal isolation, distanced from the mill of the masses about him, Palpatine watched with cool curiosity, easily able to pick out one individual in the drifting assemblage. The subject of his attention was almost lost in the crowd, but the boy's own attention, completely centered on the suspect industrialist that Palpatine had ordered him to gain the confidence of, sang out as a pure note in the muggy mud of massed minds.

Luke Antilles had been in the massive hall less than fifteen minutes and had almost immediately singled out his target, following at a discreet distance to study the industrialist's habits—all of which he would doubtless have learned well in advance from Intel, but Viscount Indo had done his job well and the boy knew that there was nothing like confirming the details— until he felt he had his plan of attack. Tonight, it would probably revolve around the boy's own youthful countenance and slight, waiflike frame, enabling him to feign adolescent enthusiasm and awed intimidation, Palpatine knew. The boy would be smiling and charming and so artfully guileless that one could not possibly, conceivably imagine him as anything but genuine.

He hated the man in truth; Palpatine could sense that already. But only in the same way that he hated most: as a kind of reflex action, a last-gasp attempt at self-preservation in a galaxy that Palpatine had taken great care to illustrate was utterly pitiless and relentlessly cruel. And the boy had always been such a fast learner. How well he played these games. In a year, perhaps less, his learning would be at an end and he would be instated as an Emperor's Hand, a life of servitude and loyalty before him—for exactly as long as he remained unconditionally and unquestioningly loyal, of course.

What a find—a gift in fact, brought here to the Imperial palace itself!

Palpatine's thin lips twitched in a momentary smile—yes, a gift in so many ways.

They had tried to keep the boy from him, of course, just as they had tried to keep Anakin from him, but the Dark Side had always served Palpatine well, and it hadn't failed him in bringing the boy to his attention. Another instrument to use as he saw fit, just as his father had been.

He looked so much like Anakin sometimes…though fortunately the boy remained slighter and lighter than his true father, a combination of his mother's inherited build and the hardship of his first four years here dictating his physique. And with fairish hair and blue eyes, he still looked enough like Kenobi that, after many years of judicious influence, Vader remained convinced that the boy was Kenobi's, and Palpatine's supreme game remained intact.

It had been such a simple task, to alter the past of a child already protected by misdirection and lies, to Palpatine's own ends. To give the boy yet another identity, when his own, right down to his significant date of birth, had been so well hidden that he didn't even know it himself. And where better to place the blame than at the feet of the man whom Vader already held responsible for the loss of his wife and his unborn child: Anakin's old mentor, Obi-Wan Kenobi. To associate the boy with Kenobi would forever damn and alienate him in Vader's eyes.

And the boy himself… With his lack of knowledge of his true identity and years alone with Palpatine, he accepted anything that his Master cared to tell him.

To change Kenobi's medical records—long since retrieved from the intact database in the razed Jedi Temple—before Vader's initial return had been effortless. As for the boy's past, nothing had been documented in the hope of protecting him, but to be sure, Palpatine had kept him carefully hidden for those first four years, until any chance of a connection or of recognition had died down…and of course, until he was satisfied that his hold on the child was absolute.

Certainly the solemn, insular child whom Palpatine had finally allowed to be seen on the event of the eleventh State Celebration on Coruscant, bore little resemblance to the seven-year-old declared murdered during the assassination of his supposed 'parents.' The chubby, fair-haired cherub had grown sallow and gaunt, hair darkening with age, skin pale from years without the sun. Still, the boy's appearance had been carefully stage-managed to catch the eyes of a very specific audience, sufficient to draw both Kenobi and Master Yoda out of hiding and enable Palpatine to bring to a satisfying conclusion the duel which he had begun with the diminutive Jedi Master eleven years earlier in the Senate Chamber.

Unlikely as any connection was, the Alderaanian Royal Houses had begun asking questions within weeks of the boy's reappearance. Clearly they had been tipped off, probably by Kenobi, who had escaped despite Vader's pursuit. The boy himself had long grown up believing himself Kenobi's unrevealed and illegitimate son, so that whilst he'd been encouraged to denigrate and rebuff any connection with his renegade 'father' Kenobi, he also felt no real ties to Alderaan, and didn't react to the Organa's interest—or rather, and more gratifyingly, he had looked to Palpatine to judge what his reaction should be.

Still, to have that division of the boy's attention was intolerable to Palpatine. Alderaan had long been ignored despite its agitation, but this was the final straw. Its government was dismantled and its Royal Prerogative revoked—a lesson to all the Royal Houses that even they were not beyond the Emperor's reach. The planet and system of Alderaan had existed under martial law ever since, a very public lesson on why one did not question one's Emperor—ever.

The boy was his alone, the promise of power which Palpatine had set in motion with Anakin's discovery once again within reach. And what a twisted little amusement to play out; Vader's son, spending every day in close proximity to his own father, neither father nor son aware of the truth.

So oblivious, in fact, that the boy was alive only because of Palpatine's daily intervention. Vader was relentlessly eager to remove Kenobi's supposed son permanently—but had settled, because of Palpatine's claiming of the child for himself, for making the boy's life utter hell.

Vader, whose power and attunement to the Force had been everything that Palpatine's should have been. Because for all the power he himself held, Palpatine knew that Anakin had embodied more. And that one fact had always gnawed at him: that it should have been him—it should have been _he_ who had held that connection, that raw power, not Anakin.

Palpatine deserved it, he himself and alone, for his own ends. He would have used it, drawn on it without restraint to gain everything he had desired so much sooner—so much easier! It should have been his. He shouldn't need to keep Vader alive, useful as he was. He shouldn't need to rely on anything…that power _should have been his_.

His lip curled in resentment. Even now, when that connection had been broken and diminished, the knowledge of Anakin's ability still fired a flare of resentment in Palpatine. Even now, he hated that which he needed, for the very fact that he still needed it.

And then his son! A son, carrying his father's power, his father's connection—that same flawless, profound connection, at once magnetic and galling in its intensity.

It had all seemed so promising; Vader's child…Anakin's child. Another chance to own the power that should have been Palpatine's by rights, but this time in its ascendancy, not fractured or tainted, as Vader's was. So he had taken the boy, barely seven, to make that power an extension of his own, to be used at will. And all this in front of Vader. Right beneath his nose, Palpatine had taken the only thing that he knew would ever have been of value to Vader…and mutilated it, blighted it…_owned_ it. Held for himself that one thing which Vader would have valued above all else, just as Vader held that which Palpatine desired: power.

An eye for an eye. Vader held the power which Palpatine knew that he alone so rightly deserved…and Palpatine held his child.

He grinned, settling back slightly in self-congratulation. Not simply held, but so much more… Because Vader hated the boy he believed so completely to be Kenobi's—hated him with a vengeance, with a loathing and a rage so great that simply to be near him was a fuse burning down.

How often had Palpatine already had to step between them when that resentment had escalated into action? How many times would Vader have unknowingly killed his own child, given the chance? How wonderfully, delightfully gratifying to know that—to know that it was _he_ who had instigated it.

Because every day Palpatine looked to Vader and saw a power he could never himself hold…and so every day, he had made it his mission to possess the single thing which would have meant so much more to Vader.

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A perfect little game, played out for his own private amusement. And so very useful. Perhaps in those first years, he had been a little…over-zealous, first in taking out his frustration that the boy existed at all, and second that he had seemed so utterly unmanageable. But they had forged a path, he and the child. From the boy's first arrival here as the seven-year-old heir to the throne of Alderaan, to the long hours invested in a unique schooling with no constraints, no conditions, hours on days on years, shaping a mind still young and pliable and placing a thousand tight controls in anticipation of that power blossoming, to his reintroduction to the galaxy as an unknown, aged eleven, Palpatine had been the boy's life. His universe. He had made sure of that. There was no one else—no other focus, good or bad.

When he'd known that he held the boy completely, that his word and his will was law, he'd finally acquiesced and begun to return his little project to the greater galaxy…but there had been problems.

Always, with the boy, there were problems.

It had been a difficult adjustment—but then Palpatine didn't require of him that the boy be comfortable or content, only useful. Still, careful control had been required to manage a slow reintroduction to the galaxy that the boy had been isolated from for so long. A shrewd choice of tutor, of routine, and he had stabilized—though he had never quite readjusted.

Because for all his training, the boy exhibited only brief, erratic surges of intense ability which spiralled into being then fell away within days—hours, sometimes. The connection was there—it blazed into being then flickered to nothing, a momentary flare of incandescent brilliance, like looking at a sun, and then…gone, despite every possible spur. A dismal trail into muddy mediocrity. He could have taken any Force-sensitive child and reaped from them the same assets that the boy now exhibited—already had.

He'd made no secret of this to the child: his disappointment, his displeasure, his open disapproval. It made no difference. The boy maintained that wary air of guarded detachment, torn between the need to please a Master who had always asked everything of him and, as he'd grown, some muted desire for autonomy which he must know by now that Palpatine would never grant.

He knew of course, that the boy had long since fallen back on spice to ease the demands of a pressured existence, knew that it was this which fired such heated guilt and cool validations in viscount Indo's mind as he struggled to control an unstable and impulsive charge. But then he sensed the same in so many facets of the viscount's reserved relationship with the boy, and in truth, such personal foibles were of little relevance. What was important was that Indo obeyed his Emperor's command. That he was loyal and he was reliable, and he was capable of realizing the raw potential that Palpatine had seen in the boy, without ever turning a professional relationship into a personal one.

The spice was of no importance. The boy had come into Palpatine's presence under its influence only once…and never again; Palpatine had made sure of that. Had made his standpoint quite clear.

The boy was still wayward, always unruly, often callous and occasionally malicious—though never, _ever_ with Palpatine. Those valuable early years had instilled deference too deeply, and a healthy fear for the Master who had ruled with an iron rod for so long. It was quite an appealing combination, this knowingly wicked and casually cutting streak—as long as he could rule the boy completely. And if he thought for one moment that he could not…well then, the boy was disposable. Completely.

Palpatine smiled, eyes fixed on the youth whose slight frame left him almost lost in the crowd, his distant disquiet tangible. Fifteen years old, on the very cusp of adult life…and so wonderfully, painfully aware of just exactly how brief his life had the potential to be.

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Even standing with his back to the dais, Luke was still uncomfortably aware of his Master's critical eyes on him, a scrutiny which felt like it burned into his back, so intense was it, leaving him edgy and anxious. Eventually, unable to stand it any more, he placed himself beyond his Master's eyes if not his awareness, stepping beneath the sweeping curve of the double-stairway to the center of the imposing hall as he moved through the crowds with a smooth grace, completely at home among the primped masses. All that color and finery beneath the grim and daunting darkness of the massive hall, as if they thought they could ever counter the shadows of this place. All those jewels, some faceted and cut crystal, others in the form of rank and insignia. They were all trinkets of one type or another, designed to tell the same story—that of wealth and power.

He slowed among the leisurely flow of pampered bodies which shoaled unseeing to either side of him. He'd learned a long time ago to be invisible in a crowd; how to make others look away, uneasy beneath intense blue eyes. Standing still in the throng, he closed them now, as he opened his senses to the complex perceptions of the myriad of minds about him, as abstract and as gaudy as the clothes they wore, becoming a blur of senses and motion as he held that massed perception of a thousand thoughts in delicate balance...

His Master said that this was his particular gift: to sense more closely than most. He had spent long hours training Luke to hone that ability, among others… But in all those punishing hours, he had never once taught Luke how to silence the tumult of minds about him, the torrent of incessant voices which mingled to a constant clamor, loud enough to make him flinch beneath their stringent roar.

The echo of too many thoughts in the massive hall, the massed sense of many minds, nervous and wired, self-seeking and serving, took him instantly back to his childhood. To that same sense of being invisible amongst so many, alone in the crowd, an awkward inconvenience avoided and ignored.

It had been a strange prison, that of his youth. For four years, he had been locked, day and night, within the vast, echoing grandeur of the Throne Room, a huge, imposing chamber twice the size of even this stately ballroom. Day and night, month on month, year on year. So long that it became his universe, and his Master…despite his ink-black robes, his dark-dressed Master was so clearly the sun, the thing about which all else revolved. The thing which could give him sustenance or leave him cold…or worse, burn with a terrible fury.

To a child, four years was an eternity. A third of his life lived in that one chamber, either crowded with throngs of people as this hall was today, or deathly silent in the absolute darkness, echoing the myriad of unknown noises which any room threw out in the silent pitch of night.

At times, his prison was shot through with color and vibrancy which he himself had never been a part of, courtiers flitting past like so many dazzling butterflies, and just as ethereal to Luke as a child. Because none of them looked at him. None of them met his eye. He existed outside of their world of comfort and plenty. He starved amid gluttony, he froze surrounded by opulent furs and smooth-spun silk. He bled, without a hand raised to him in comfort.

A surreal existence in which he had been a ghost, a cipher knowingly ignored by all but his dark-dressed Master, until even that attention became craved.

And all that time, his Master had taught. Taught by example, by order, by demand.

There were times when his teachings made no sense to a child too young to understand. There were others when his words had struck so close to home that Luke's head and his heart had ached in empathy, left abandoned and alone for hours in the silence of long nights, too hungry and too cold to sleep, too exhausted to be truly awake.

The Jedi, his Master had taught him with absolute disdain, sought their precious calm in such times. Meditated for hours in their futile quest to strip their being of emotion, believing that too much emotion could cloud the judgment and freeze the mind. Futile goals, his Master had said, because that very thing which the Jedi sought to purge, was the source of true power. Sith power.

Yet in those first months, it had been the brusquely dismissed Jedi teachings, and not those of the Sith, which had seemed to Luke so intuitive and true. There were so many times when Luke would have given everything to purge himself of emotion, crouched silent and terrified in the darkness of that vast, echoing hall as he'd watched the shadows crawl, abandoned and forgotten in the baleful dark of endless nights.

But time… They said time was the great healer, though it had never been that for Luke; never. But it was a teacher; it granted perspective, imposed endurance. And, occasionally, it bestowed clarity. Because too little emotion, as the Jedi advocated—too little, and Luke doubted he would have survived his early years with Palpatine at all. How could you give everything, make that investment, consign every resource physically and mentally to the moment, without the spur of fear, of fury, of grim desperation? Nature had gifted this to every living being, the fundamental expression of existence; the intrinsic ability to endure, to survive, to commit all to the moment, fired by the emotions therein.

In terms of actual, physical time, the years he had been imprisoned in the surreal, shadowed netherworld of the windowless Throne Room were a fraction of Luke's life. In terms of his soul, of their effect upon him, they stretched behind and before him like eternity. A cold stillness at his core, as if those grim and silent nights remained within him.

He remembered distinctly that primal instinct, that drive to survive which had sent him hiding in the darkness, finding the smallest space. The cramped and hidden refuges he'd crush himself into for some semblance of safety.

Or the nights with full moons in which he would chase down the circle of light which shone into his dark world from the high, circular skylight. There were no other windows in his Master's Throne Room—there was no world beyond this one vast chamber… Except when the moon was full. Then, it washed its soft glow through that one high transom, and he used to seek out and curl up in that circle of light…and in the night when he woke and it was gone, sliding silently away, he remembered scrabbling desperately in the darkness to get to it again, that tiny circle of pale moonlight, as if it could protect him from the darkness all around.

Seven years old, alone and afraid, it had seemed like even the light had deserted him—even it now consigned him to the shadows. That was all that was left to him now. He could only huddle, arms wrapped about himself, and listen to every scrape and every scratch in the empty underhangs and darkest corners of that massive, echoing chamber, big enough that it took long, nerve-rending minutes to walk from one side to another, whilst those looming shadows reached out to engulf him as he listened all the while to the creaks and scuffs and grating grinds. The soft drag of imagined footfalls, hidden in a darkness so dense that it writhed with a life all its own. It stalked, it waited, it whispered…

In his childhood, even within fleeting memories of Alderaan, he'd had a recurring dream, a nightmare that he'd stood in the half-shadows on the very threshold of darkness, the safety of daylight just beyond. One step more and he would stand in the light. One step more and he could run free.

And then somehow, without his moving, the darkness would seep about him and he would hear the rasping breath of the creature move behind him, huge and heavy, freezing the breath in his lungs and paralyzing him in terror…then the darkness would close about him, stealing his senses, rendering him blind and helpless—

—and it would pounce.

Incredible weight, raw power, a body-blow which would knock the air from his lungs in a gasp, driving him to his knees. Vice-like, inescapable hold, like claws ensnared in skin and scalp which wrenched him from behind, yanking him bodily back…

Always dragging him back into darkness.

And every night in his childhood, his Master had locked him, alone, into the smothering, impenetrable pitch of the dark Throne Room. Every single night, he had locked Luke into that nightmare…

And every day, the harsh, brutal reality of his life had paled it by comparison.

Absolutely alone, he had dug deep for that primal sense, that resilience, that instinct to survive by any means.

By the time he was eleven, he no longer feared the monster hiding in the darkness.

He'd become it.

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Luke blinked rapidly, moving his head just slightly, rebuffing as much as he could the flare of old memories fired by the contact of too many close minds about him. He pushed them away as he always had done, the only way he knew to silence the hoards, the only way his Master had ever taught him. He turned to the one other mind that was louder, the one mind that resonated within the Force: his Master. By concentrating on that one mind, that one connection, Luke could drown out so much else; reduce the blaring din to a distant, clawing clatter at the edges of his perceptions. It gave him strength, that bond, that tie. Pulled wayward thoughts into a kind of focus.

Opening his eyes, Luke started forward again through the crowds, letting them scatter subconsciously before him as he slipped through their masses like a shark on the hunt.

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Standing to one side of the heaving hall, body atilt as he leaned against the wall, Han watched from a distance, fascinated. The kid had stood stock still beneath the divided curve of the double stairwell, right in the middle of the flow of people, for almost ten minutes…and not a single one had accidentally knocked him or jostled him, though his back was to the flow. Not one. They all just…drifted to the side at the last moment, without ever looking at him. No one hassled him, no one glared, no one said anything, they just all stepped aside without seeming to register that he was there at all.

The kid blinked suddenly, eyes opening as he shook his head slightly…then he started forward, serious scowling eyes on some old overdressed, overbearing guy who'd just passed him. The man turned—and instantly the kid's expression changed, a shy, deferential half-smile coming from nowhere as he bobbed his head slightly and started up conversation.

Which, given the kid's general disposition, was pretty damn weird in itself, Han reflected. In fact, it was the weirdest thing he'd seen today—and that was saying something. They spoke for a good while as the kid nodded, holding constant eye-contact, the older guy seeming to have an awful lot to say to a fifteen-year-old kid.

Way too much, in fact. Kid was clearly stuck, Han realized. He walked forward to the kid's back, and was getting pretty close before he noticed him put the hand which was by his side behind his back to wave subtly. Definitely stuck, Han reflected.

He stepped in, nodding to the other man. "Sorry, could I…'scuse me, sorry." He turned to the kid. "Uh, Luke? You have a comm."

The kid turned, something a little too intense in his eyes. "What?"

"Comm—you have a comm." Han looked to the expensively dressed man, smiling widely. "Just need to borrow him for a minute."

Kid didn't even pause. "Go away."

The big man, too, seemed put out, looking Han up and down and dismissing him in the same instant. "We're busy here, soldier."

Han nodded, a tight smile plastered over his offense. "Just one minute…important business."

The man raised one eyebrow, disbelieving. "Who?"

Han floundered for a moment, searching his memory for someone who'd put the fear of all hells into the pompous man… Moff Tarkin's name was on his lips just as the kid put out a hand.

"Wait—don't!" He glanced back to the man, voice apologetic. "Let me just…deal with this."

The man rolled his eyes, snubbed. "Take the comm."

"No, it's not that, it's just…"

The man waved his hand in casual dismissal, eyes roving the crowd now. "Take the call."

"Maybe we can talk later?"

The big man looked Luke up and down for a second, lips pursed as if in consideration. "I'm sure."

He set off into the crowds, leaving Luke to smile at his back just a little too long.

The kid waited a few more seconds before turning on Han, that sunny smile instantly gone. "Thanks a lot."

"That's one you owe me, junior."

"Yeah, that was my mark," the kid said dryly.

"What?"

"That was my mark…the man I'm supposed to draw out and read tonight. Thanks to you, I'm going to have to try to follow him round so I can look for an opportunity to start up conversation all over again. That's not gonna look weird at all, now is it?"

Han stared for a good three seconds. "…What?"

"Seriously, do you think I come to these things for the fun of it? I have a job to do, and tonight it's to get that guy talking to see if I can find out whether he knows about the fact that a tenth of the ordnance that his factories are manufacturing falls into Rebel hands, or whether he really is that stupid. I was just being _so_ impressed that he ran a weapons facility," the kid said with dry distaste, "then you barge in."

"You were waving your hand behind your back!"

"Yes! That was me telling you to go away!"

"What, am I psychic now?"

"Clearly not, so I'll say it out loud _again_, shall I…go away."

"You made me come here!"

"That was just because I didn't see why I should suffer alone." The kid stretched up to glance through the crowd, trying to keep the man he'd been speaking to in view. "Now I can't go back to him for another hour without it seeming contrived, thanks to you."

"Well clearly you don't need me," Han tried. "Does that mean I can go?"

"Remember that whole 'I don't see why I should suffer alone' thing? Now it's double, since you've stuck me here for another hour."

"How can it be double?"

"You want me to stick this thing out all night? Cos I can do that…" Luke glanced about, frowning. "Great, now I've lost him entirely. You go that way, I'll go the other."

Muttering a curse, Han glanced back before he set off. "What'd he look like again?"

"Please—he had a pale green jacket and a red sash on. How long did you look at him?" The kid was already moving off, his slight frame almost instantly lost in the crowd.

Muttering his private opinion of the kid, high-class parties, and life in general, Han set off in the opposite direction.

He'd made it all the way around the massive ballroom—which had taken a good ten minutes—and was halfway through his second loop, cursing at the realization that not only could he not see the red and green-striped lunkhead but he'd also now lost the diminutive kid, when he stopped still, so surprised that he actually did a double-take.

Luke was standing to one side of the hall facing a young man balanced on the very edge of adulthood, as he was. Both were slim with short, dark blond hair and pale eyes, both of a similar manner and comportment, though the unknown courtier wore expensive clothes in pale colors, a complete contrast to the dark, somber suit that Luke wore.

For a second Han thought they might be friends, complaining and consoling each other about having to attend what even he thought was a mind-numbingly dull function—or maybe both kids had some kind of mission here tonight and they were comparing notes… Hell, maybe the Ubiqtorate recruited all their agents this young.

But even from this distance, there was something in the stranger's stance that hinted at a confrontation, though Luke remained as self-possessed and neutral as ever. Han slowed, uncertain what to do, and maybe just a little satisfied that the kid was having as bad a time as he was.

The stranger took a half-step forward as he continued to speak, his head tilting slightly as those fine features arranged into a thin sneer, though his words were too quiet to carry. Luke held his ground unmoved, and uttered some unheard reply. Whatever it was, the unknown youth felt compelled to retreat a short step, leaving Han to reflect that he'd give a week's pay to know what was being spoken—if, of course, he hadn't promised the next six months of it to the shop that had made his damn uniforms.

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Luke leaned subtly forward, forcing Aramil to take a quarter-step back in reaction. Sensing the brief flare of Aramil's annoyance at his own retreat brought an undisguised, and very knowing, smile to Luke's face.

Fuelled by that, Aramil found his nerve—and aimed it squarely at Luke. "Don't play your little confidence games with me. I know what you are, Sith. You think you can threaten me with impunity? I'm under Palpatine's protection, lest you forget."

Luke maintained the slightest of empty smiles on his face, though it never touched his eyes. "You're a toy, Aramil—a momentary distraction. Whatever position you think you have, believe me, it's not even nearly unassailable. Swimming in the sea doesn't make you a shark—and you're surrounded by professional predators here."

"Please, spare me the powerplays. I'm untouchable and you know it…and it's just eating you up inside."

Luke couldn't be more dismissive, his eyes returning to the crowd in search of his mark, whom he'd spotted crossing the far side of the hall. "Go home and look in a mirror, Aramil. When you've worked out what's really going on you may gain some scrap of sense—and of your place here."

"Oh, I know my place," Aramil sneered. "It's right above yours. You think you're close to the Emperor, you think you have his ear—well forget it. You're old news. You're yesterday's curiosity."

Luke shook his head just slightly, peripherally aware of those around them trying to take a few subtle steps back before the fireworks started. The fact was that he wasn't looking for an argument tonight. He had a job to do, and it wouldn't be achieved by drawing attention to himself. "You're an embarrassment, Aramil—you're a joke. Everyone knows it but you." He glanced away, boring of the pointless standoff and the minor annoyance it caused. "Don't try to go against me. I eat little things like you every day."

"You've had your day. Now it's mine." Aramil looked Luke up and down, eyes measuring him and naïvely dismissing him. "And you know, I think I'm feeling a little hungry myself."

That brought Luke's eyes back, voice cooling by degrees. "Don't—don't think I can't bring you down, and don't think I'll have even a splinter of mercy if I do."

"Why don't you go ahead and try and we'll see just who makes a meal out of who."

Luke paused a long time, calculating gaze meeting the self-satisfied dare of the young man.

"Really?" He knew he'd pay for it, and he knew exactly how, but in that moment it didn't really matter. "You want to swim with the sharks? Fine. Tonight."

The handsome young man frowned slightly as fine lines wrinkled his youthful face in betrayal of the momentary uncertainty that blasted out from him in the Force. "What?"

Luke was already drawing the Force about him—slowly, subtly, whiting out both their emotions like a thickening blanket of snow. "Tonight. I'll settle this tonight—and I'll do it through Palpatine. Just to let you know how precarious your position always was here, Aramil."

Luke paused briefly before the man's confusion, already sending out a fine tendril beyond that blank bubble; the barest shiver, the tremble of a single thought, a forged emotion purposely concealed but subtly revealed, silent as a sigh: interest, amity; rapt attention…

It took only a second to cast that lure out and gain the audience he required. His Master's head snapped about as if a blaster shot had gone off. Even with his back to Palpatine, Luke could sense the instantaneous shift of focus, and with it the fact that the game was in play. He leaned forward a fraction too far, an increment too close, careful that his head hid Aramil's shock from the Emperor.

As if sharing a secret, he brought his mouth to the man's ear, his hand reaching out to rest against Aramil's chest as he whispered quietly, forcing his listener to lean unconsciously forward to hear.

A shivering buzz raced through him as the Force surged in at his command; a brief moment of heightened awareness, wrapped about and veiled from his Master's prying eyes. The palm of Luke's hand rested on the smooth silk of Aramil's shirt, and for a single beat—just one single beat—he called on the Force to stop the man's heart; felt it pound against the palm of his hand in resurgence as he released his invisible grip and murmured softly, "Feel that? That's it. You're already dead, Aramil…killed by an empty whisper."

Pulling back, Luke arranged a carefully forged degree of reluctance in his thoughts and projected a sliver out into the Force, though his eyes, seen only by Aramil, were hard and taunting. As he stepped back, he allowed the hand which had rested against Aramil's heart to pause momentarily on his arm in an empty gesture of fellowship before he turned, holding Aramil's uncertain gaze until the last second as he walked slowly away.

When he finally reached the tall bank of leaded windows at the far side of the hall, his back to the room, Luke reached out to brush his Master's senses with feather-light subtlety before allowing the slightest of self-satisfied smiles to shade his face. He hadn't needed to check, in truth; he used the trick rarely, but it had never yet failed.

He would pay, of course. His Master would read the youth easily, when he had Aramil dragged before him without Luke's subtle masking of his emotions. But by then it would be too late. Even realizing, Palpatine would still lash out in frustration at the only person immediately before him. Then he would summon Luke, furious not that Luke had sought to remove the youth—that was near-immaterial—but that he had thought for one moment to involve his Master in the game, and more importantly, that he'd had the ability to do so.

He shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have used the Force so flagrantly without his Master's bidding. Not when he so often lacked the ability to call it up at all. It was for that, more than any other transgression, that Luke knew he'd pay. But he was used to that. There was nothing his Master could threaten that he hadn't already done, yet Luke was still here; he survived. He had lived his whole life like this, as long as he could remember…and when one lived one's life in hell, fire and brimstone became the norm.

"What was that about?" Solo approached, breaking Luke's gaze away from Aramil, who had turned to walk a few uncertain steps, hand going briefly to his chest. Luke glanced to the Corellian…but it didn't for one moment occur to him to tell the truth.

"Politics," he shrugged easily, leaving Solo to glance back to the well-dressed young man, openly curious.

"Didn't look like politics," Solo said, searching Luke's face for any clues.

Luke turned, indifference lending a distant, disingenuous smile to the corners of his lips. "Court politics never does. It has a life all its own…and it's a dangerous game for the newcomer." His eyes flicked to the side without quite touching Aramil. "Tiny sprats should wait a while before they try to swim with sharks."

Solo glanced again to Aramil. "What did you say to him?"

"I said goodbye."

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Han made a point to keep his eye on the other man as the night wore on, and the kid returned to his mark twice for extended conversations, Han ignored or forgotten beneath the execution of his duties.

When the Emperor retired, he noted that Saté Pestage reappeared a few minutes later, making his way discretely to the unknown man. It wasn't hard to interpret the look on his face as the Emperor's aide spoke; that momentary burst of dread bordering on panic. The man left immediately with Pestage…

And that was the last Han ever saw or heard of him, in Court or otherwise. He simply disappeared.

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my website, where there's a little extra at the end of each chapter - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page, or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	5. Chapter 5

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**CHAPTER FIVE**

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Morning was another tired walk across a ridiculous number of levels, the monumental, minimalist architecture dark and dour even in the light of day. Han shook his head, telling himself that he really, _really_ had to get a reassignment. Meeting Gorn, who was his usual chipper self despite the early hour, didn't help.

As they rounded the last turn to the now-familiar corridor outside Luke's apartment, their fresh cafs in hand, both Han and Gorn stepped quickly aside as Professor Lentic, whom Han knew was the kid's physics tutor, hustled hastily between them and out, head down.

Han glanced back over his shoulder as Lentic hurried away. "Where's he off to? Luke not back yet?"

He'd wandered back to the apartment and hung around a few extra hours last night, but the kid hadn't reappeared, so eventually Han had turned in, knowing he had an early shift the next day. Now, he was wondering whether the kid had managed to sneak out of the palace entirely and not yet returned, as Gorn said he did sometimes.

They walked into the apartment…and heard the ruckus from the door. Unseen, Luke was yelling at the top of his voice, almost hoarse already. Han paused, listening to lock the sound down to the library just the other side of the dark main corridor, where a hell of an argument sounded like it was going on.

"Oh, I dunno," Gorn said just a little too brightly, "sounds like he's back to me."

As they slowed, an almighty crash made both Han and Gorn physically jump. The run of large canvasses, hung on the adjoining wall between the library and the corridor they were standing in, all lifted slightly as Han felt a tremor beneath his feet, as if someone had just flown a TIE into the building. A second later, the kid came storming out of the room, still yelling.

"…can't get out of my face then get out of my apartment!"

Viscount Indo followed two steps behind, voice calm as ever. "The fact that you do not like the truth makes it no less valid. It was reckless, childish and petty to act as you did when…"

Luke spun about, arm raised to point at Indo. "Out! What about that word do you not understand!"

"If you think that throwing a tantrum will change anyth…"

The kid tensed and for a brief second Han felt _something_… Like a pressure seal failing in deep space, as the air around him seemed to compress then expand, making his ears pop. In front of him, Indo staggered two paces back…

Luke remained still, feet planted, head tilted, eyes ablaze.

His back to Han, Indo straightened, quiet and breathless, but unyielding. "Don't."

The kid didn't move, voice a low warning. "Don't push me then."

It was only now that Han noticed that the kid had a developing black eye and a series of scuffed scratches to the same side of his face.

Indo held firm. "Everything you did was by your own decision. If you choose to act irresponsibly then you must expect consequences."

The kid straightened slightly, almost laughing. "My decision?"

"You knew what would happen if you turned on Aramil—"

"I never touched him!"

"You forced the Emperor to react—you _chose_ to do that."

The kid laughed out loud, bitter and biting. It broke to nothing almost immediately as he clutched at his ribs, stifling a gasp. Glaring at Indo, he wheeled about to stalk away into the Red Room.

Han watched, amazed, as Indo immediately set after him. That guy really didn't know when to quit…

At the last second Luke swung about, hand lifting, his palm spread—

Six paces in front of him, the doors slammed closed in Indo's face with enough power to rattle them and rustle the Viscount's perfect robes. He waited barely a second before palming the entry plate.

Han could only stare as Indo walked calmly into the room, the doors closing behind him as he pressed their closure panel. Immediately the kid's voice rang out and another incredible _whump_ sounded as something impacted against the wall, clattering as its broken parts fell to the floor.

Finding his feet, Han set forward. Gorn took a fast grip on his arm. "Listen to me, Solo, let me give you some very sound advice: _don't_ _get involved_. You keep your head down, you keep your thoughts to yourself and you don't get involved. Do that, and you'll have your promotion and be out of here in the standard turn around of staff. I told you before, things have a habit of getting broken around here and believe me, it can very easily be you if you get yourself in the middle of this. I've seen it enough times."

"Like when?"

"Just…trust me on this one. Indo knows Luke—he gets away with stuff no one else would dare, especially with this kind of…"

The doors to the Red Room opened slightly as Indo stepped coolly through, instantly palming them closed, though they reverberated to a huge blow from the other side a second after he'd done so. Indo looked up the corridor to meet Han and Gorn's open stares, his flat voice gripped by just a trace of tightness. "I assume you both have duties which don't involve standing around in empty corridors?"

Neither of them moved, other than flinching as another huge thud sounded from the room behind Indo, making the doors clatter in their frame. Even Indo, his hands behind his back and still resting on the doors' activation plate, reacted to that one—though that perfect sabacc-face was instantly reinstated as he continued to stare them down. "Well?"

Still holding Han's sleeve, Gorn eased him backwards towards the small staffroom without a word. Han held Indo's eye as he let himself be pulled, another wall-shaking blow sounding as the kid shouted out from the room, unseen.

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In the small, bright staffroom, Han and Gorn remained still, listening to the continuing ruckus which vibrated the floor beneath their feet…

As it seemed to subside, Han turned to Gorn and opened his mouth to speak. Another resounding _whump_ sounded…then silence.

"Okay, what the hell's going on?" Han finally asked, words practically merging into one.

Gorn shrugged, casually starting up the virtual screens and memo ports as if it were any other day. "I told you, Luke gets a little…you know."

"_You know. _No, I don't know! What the hell was all that noise?"

"Oh, that's just Luke throwing stuff around."

"What, has he got a Wookiee in there with him?"

"Heh, no—very funny." Gorn laughed genuinely.

Han was at the end of his tether. "Don't mess with me, Gorn—what the hell was that?"

"I told you, he has…these…outbursts. Now you know what one looks like, at least. You can usually tell if he's going into one—he actually goes quieter when he's about to really…"

Indo's appearance at the door reduced Gorn to instant silence. The Viscount glanced from Han to Gorn with narrowed, knowing eyes, before speaking as if nothing at all were out of place.

"Lieutenant Solo, inform Flight Control that we require a shuttle and two TIE escorts for…"

Luke appeared behind Indo, turning all attention to himself. His voice was unnaturally calm, though he was breathing heavily. "Solo, get your jacket, you're with me. Gorn, inform Flight Control we'll be leaving for Sinto Barracks on the Emperor's order. Viscount Indo will give you the details." He turned away immediately to head for the exit.

Indo and Han glanced to each other…then both set off after him. Indo got there first. "Luke, you need accompanying on this mission to…"

Luke didn't even slow down. "Thank you, Viscount, but this is a military mission and so should be comprised of military personnel. Lieutenant Solo has been cleared for such, and I'd hate to break protocol. You tell me often enough how ridiculously important it is to you."

"Luke, if you wish to make a point then you have done so, but I strongly..."

The kid stopped dead in the corridor but didn't turn, his tone clipped and serious. "Stop following me, or I will make a _real_ point."

He remained still for a few seconds more…then continued on alone.

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Still pulling his jacket on, Han was stopped by Indo's hand on his arm as he passed, grip like steel. Luke had stepped into a side room to the end of the corridor, and Indo spoke in fast, hushed tones.

"Watch his surroundings closely—don't let things get out of hand or agitate him further. You may consider yourself authorized to do whatever you have to, to minimize that." Han glanced down at his arm, but Indo didn't release him. "It's about time you took a little responsibility, Lieutenant Solo. You're in a position of extreme trust and privilege. Start acting like you might actually deserve it. If you think the situation—or Luke—is escalating beyond your control, comm me."

"You don't like letting him out on his own much, do you?"

"I also expect you to act like a genuine adjutant…including saluting Luke and acknowledging his rank. Lieutenant Gorn may have his relaxed little system in the apartment, which he thinks I don't know about, but outside you act like the soldier you're meant to be—and that includes treating Luke like the officer he is."

"Officer?"

"Luke Antilles holds the rank of lieutenant commander in the Ubiqtorate. You will treat him as such."

"Wait, he holds a Lieutenant Commander's rank… You're saying that I have to salute a fifteen-year-old kid?"

"I'm saying that you should salute any and every lieutenant commander, Second Lieutenant Solo."

Luke stepped from the side-room, his black Ubiqtorate jacket fastened. Looking down the corridor, he held still until Indo released his hold on Han…then turned and strode out of the apartment without a word.

It was only when they were alone and the kid had slowed just slightly, one hand resting against his ribs, that Han realized he was limping too.

"You okay?" he tried.

"Perfect," the kid said dryly. "Ecstatic, in fact. Thrilled. High on life."

"Want me to shut up?"

"Yes."

Han nodded.

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The silence held as they boarded the Reinar shuttle, sitting opposite each other in the small cabin, as Luke stared out into the middle distance. They'd been travelling a good ten minutes before he finally stirred, patting down his pockets and cursing before he looked to Han. "I suppose it's too much to ask if you have a spice stick?"

"Pretty much, but kudos for tryin'," Han replied dryly.

The kid's eyes narrowed. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much your opinion of me matters."

He stood up to glance around the small passenger cabin, balancing easily though the small shuttle ducked and dipped constantly in the day's high winds. Lifting his hands to the top of the compartment walls, he winced once and wrapped one arm about his ribs again, before standing on the seat to run his fingers along wire conduits and stowing racks at ceiling level. Finally he grinned—and pulled out a battered spice stick.

"See? Always pays to use the same three shuttles!" He stepped down, rolling the red-wrapped spice stick between his palms to compress it, and put it in his mouth. "You got a light?"

"Nope."

"Do you actually ever carry anything of value about your person?"

Han didn't get a chance to reply before the kid turned about to head for the cockpit, staggering only slightly as the shuttle made a wayward tip to one side. When he reappeared a moment later, it was behind a cloud of that same scarlet smoke. Instantly calmed, he sat heavily down and stared openly at Han, who returned the stare as the kid took a long, thoughtful pull on the spice stick.

"So what did Indo say to you?" the kid asked at last, casually talkative now. "Giving you last minute advice on how to handle a firebrand?"

"He said I should call you Sir."

Luke laughed lightly. "Judging from the look in your eye right now I can't see that happening."

"Me neither…sir."

"Oh, didn't that just kill you?"

Han glanced down. "How long have you worn that uniform?"

"A year." The words came out in a scarlet haze of spice-sharp smoke.

"They don't take fourteen-year-olds in the military."

"The Ubiqtorate isn't the military."

"Then what the hell is it?"

"What the hell is it, _sir_," the kid corrected—but gamely, well awareof the irony. He paused a second, taking another slug of the spice stick and watching the ruby smoke roll up to ceiling level. "We're the Emperor's right hand…which is ironic really, 'cos that's what I'm training for anyway."

"What?"

"Never mind. You don't like us, do you?"

"I have something of a problem with fifteen-year-old spice-junkies holding the rank of lieutenant commander," Han came back. "How many missions have you been on exactly?"

Luke stared at the ceiling a moment. "Uh…eleven. Mostly field."

"Right," Han dismissed, nodding.

"Plus an assortment of snub-nose dogfights. I kinda like pitch battle in a TIE—I would have liked to have been a pilot. I _don't_ like that thing when you come back afterwards and you're hyper for hours though… D'you get that?"

"You fly a TIE," Han said skeptically.

"Interceptor…a variant, actually," Luke nodded. "Can't see a damn thing out of a standard TIE. I have no idea how you fly them."

"You know those things've got scopes and inter-spacial HUD in the cockpit, don't you?" Han said dryly.

"Please, don't even try to defend them. I've flown the Advanced a few times, but I prefer the Interceptor—it's tighter on the turn, it has a lower profile and visibility's better. Not much use having all those extra weapons on the Advanced if you can't see where to shoot them. I've seen the Advanced Mark Two that they're already working on, with the Interceptor's wing configuration—that's not to full prototype yet. Nice though."

Han stared for long seconds… "Well, this is great. I do three years at the academy and fly every supply and babysitting mission in the ass-end of the galaxy, and I get one lousy rank bar and a court-martial. And I get to call a kid who flies Interceptors and Advanced TIEs at the age of fifteen, Sir."

"What—maybe I'm a good pilot."

"Hey, I'm a great pilot."

"Ah, but were you at fifteen?" the kid asked knowingly. "And actually, I'm almost sixteen."

"Oh, almost?"

The kid screwed his face up. "Yeah, I just heard that myself—that was embarrassing. Maybe I should put this out, I'm probably gonna need a clear head when I get there." He grinned, eyes remaining on Han as he stubbed the spice stick out on the side of the shuttle wall, burning a smutty stain into the polished panelling. "For when I'm ordering all my elders and betters about."

"Little late to clear your head, isn't it?"

"No, I can clear this out with a few minutes' notice," the kid said cryptically.

"Where the hell do you get it from anyway?"

"Seriously, you don't know? Cos I could name fifteen places within minutes of the palace."

"You said you don't get it from the cantinas."

"I never said these places were cantinas."

"I mean credits," Han said, tiring of the word-games. "Where're you getting the credits for all this stuff?"

"The palace."

"The palace is a pretty big place."

"Yeah, you gotta love it for that." Luke grinned. "My favorite is unfilled-in ID's, military and civilian—you can pick them up from the main administration hub in the base ziggurat. They always sell well. Or military medals from overstuffed Moffs —they go pretty well too. Not regalia though—they belong to the planet they're from, not the person wearing them." He half-shrugged. "You have to have some rules."

"So wait a minute, you steal stuff from the palace…actually from the Moffs?"

"Only the ones I don't like. And don't give me that look. I know you've got a light-fingered past yourself—I read your file, including the amount of trouble you got into as a minor. In fact, I wanted to ask you about how you..."

"I'm not gonna give you pointers!"

The kid grinned again as he turned to glance out of the viewport, typically unrepentant. "What, they shouldn't just leave stuff lying around if they don't want it taken."

"You're telling me they leave valuable insignia lying around?" Han asked doubtfully.

"Yeah…I mean, you know, in safes, but it's still just lying around."

"You can crack safes?"

"No, but I can crack thoughts. I can generally pick up all I need from the Moff's head in a five or ten-minute conversation—get him talking on anything, guide the talk back to palace security then rifle through his thoughts a little, pick it clean out."

"What d'you mean, pick it clean out?"

"A little party trick I can do. Hey, there's got to be some worthwhile reason to attend state dinners, right?"

The kid grinned, his laissez-faire humor so infectious that Han had to laugh, turning away to shake his head as Luke continued.

"I don't do it much—I don't really need to do it at all. Mostly, it's just for sport. If I possibly can, I like to be close by when they realize their stuff's gone the next day. Being in the room and acting outraged on their behalf is the icing on the cake. Most of them don't deserve those medals they wear anyway. I'd never take one from someone who'd earned it."

"Not like you, huh? 'Cos you've earned that silver bar on your collar," Han said without malice, warming to the kid.

"As a matter of fact, I have," the kid said casually, rising. "We're here. Do you think you can manage the sir thing?"

"I'll give it a try…sir."

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The escort shuttle settled first, so that their stormtrooper escort were already out and waiting by the time their own shuttle came in for a neat, precision landing. As the ramp lowered and Han followed Luke out, he was treated to his first ever experience of being the cause of a nervous Imperial reception, rather than the guy fretting, as the five senior officers of the Sinto Military Base snapped to nervous attention.

They'd made it to about ten paces before the commanding officer started to scowl, his eyes flicking quickly between Han and Luke as he tried to work out why the only guy coming toward him who looked old enough to be a soldier on active duty was walking _behind_ the youth in the black Ubiqtorate uniform. Han held back another half pace just to let the Commander know who was in charge, and Luke wasn't slow to step forward, his voice businesslike.

"Commander Wenlock, I believe? You have a probable collaborator for me?"

Commander Wenlock was still staring between the kid in front of him with a black eye and half a dozen scrapes along his jawline, and Han, standing silently behind him, face straight and serious. Mouth slightly open, Wenlock looked for all the galaxy like he was waiting for someone to let him in on the joke any minute now. Han figured this had to be the average reception for the kid, all things considered, so he was curious about what would happen next.

"Commander Wenlock?" Luke prompted again, voice shorter, in no mood for games.

Neither, it seemed, was Commander Wenlock. He glanced once to the uniform Luke wore, then looked straight to Han. "I was told that a Ubiqtorate officer would be arriving to take possession of the prisoner."

Luke glanced away. "You speak over my head one more time, Commander, and you'll be a lieutenant by the end of the day."

After a brief, taut silence, the Commander glanced down, deigning to notice him. "_You're_ the officer the Ubiqtorate sent?"

The kid matched his tone exactly. "_You're_ the Commander in charge of this base?"

"I had expected someone a shade more…experienced," the Commander said deprecatingly.

"Yeah, I'd expected somebody bright enough to know not to cross a Ubiqtorate officer, but there you go—we work with what we're supplied," Luke said dryly, turning now to indicate Han. "This is Lieutenant Solo."

The kid patently didn't supply his own name, Han noticed.

Wenlock looked Han up and down, his distaste not improving any. "He's not Ubiqtorate."

"No, we don't travel in little packs," Luke told him, glancing to the assembled officers behind Wenlock. "We don't generally feel the need for group support on every decision we make. Where's your detention center?"

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It turned out that the suspected collaborator was an Imperial crewman, caught making information dumps to memory cards early this morning, before his shift began. He still had the cards on his person when he'd been caught in one of the secondary Ops rooms. Stupid, to think they could get away with it this far inside the Core, Han reflected. Twice over, to try to do it from inside a military base. Everyone knew the penalty for insurrection.

They didn't go down to the detention center when they entered the building, though. Turned out the man was still in the Ops room that he'd been caught in, under guard.

The Commander paused at the entry to the command levels, indicating the biometric scanner on the console. "Your IDs, please?"

Han stepped forward automatically, looking into the detection lens, only mildly surprised that he'd been asked, considering he was already wearing ID cylinders in his top pocket. The system came up with his ID and image, confirming his permissions.

Wenlock looked expectantly at Luke….who didn't move. "My ID is UB-65068, Commander. If you need to verify that, then contact the Ubiqtorate on official channels. They'll confirm it."

"Scans are standard protocol for unknown officers entering command levels of high-security bases," Wenlock said. "And on the handover of prisoners."

"Ubiqtorate don't hand out biometric information, Commander. I'd've thought even you knew that."

"This is still my military base," the Commander said without moving.

"No, this is the Emperor's military base, you're simply a serving officer. You've done a good job in identifying a conspirator…try not to parlay it into a demotion."

When Wenlock remained still, Luke glanced away with a sigh, giving every impression of tiring of this game. "Look, I'm younger than you expected, given my rank. I get that—I see your point." For a second, Han genuinely thought the kid was going to back down as he stepped a little closer to Wenlock, voice quieting. "Here's mine… It's not my fault that it's taken you forty years to attain half my rank. I'm not answerable for your frustrations at your own shortcomings. I am, however, aware of my own, one of which is that today, I am on a very, very short fuse. I therefore suggest you stop baiting me, because I can, believe me, walk straight over you far easier than I can work around you, and I'mI am in no mood at the moment to do any polite sidestepping… So what do you say you get out of my way and off my back before I trample all over this sad little excuse for a power trip you're trying so hard to pull on me?"

Wenlock stared for long seconds…then turned to one of his own staff. "Lieutenant Saff, take the _officer's_ ID and run it by Ubiqtorate. Check his credentials."

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All in all, Han figured, it was pretty fair to say that the kid wasn't in the best of moods when they reached the Ops room. And he probably already knew that chances were, he'd face much the same reception from the man held inside—which made it an odd choice that someone would send him on this mission at all, Han reflected, particularly since it didn't seem like the kind of thing the kid usually did. It occurred to Han briefly to wonder whether that was exactly why he'd been sent to do this job today, as Luke's claim back at the staffroom that they were here _on the Emperor's order_ came to mind. Clearly he'd somehow hacked Palpatine off last night…would the man take enough of an interest to make sure that the kid had a bad day as well as a black eye?

The door to the secondary Ops room slid back. It was empty save for a seated man, two stormtroopers slightly behind him. He looked up, anger and resolve written all over his stony expression, the barest cast of nerves in his eyes. The deadpan resolve wavered to a second of obvious uncertainty as Luke entered, Han, Commander Wenlock and one of Wenlock's lieutenants a half step behind.

"Stand up," Luke said without preamble.

The man's eyes flicked guardedly to Wenlock, then back to Luke. "Who are you?"

Luke looked to the troopers. "Stand him up."

The troopers didn't even pause; as far as they were concerned, if someone was wearing an officer's uniform, you did what you were told. One reached forward to pull the chair back, forcing the man to stand, stumbling slightly as he did so.

Luke had already turned half away to Wenlock. "Why isn't he wearing binders?"

"We have two troopers in the room," Wenlock came back coolly.

Luke held his eyes for two or three seconds, and even Han winced internally; any military man knew you showed a clear line of command in front of a prisoner. You presented an absolutely united front.

Luke turned back to the man. "First Lieutenant Kern Derrig, you stand charged with conspiracy to overthrow the Empire, premeditated failure of military duty, and passing sensitive information to enemies of the State. You will be taken into detention until such a time as that charge is answered to the satisfaction of the State. Conspiracy is a class one charge and entitles you to no defense or council. Do you understand the full charges brought against you?"

Han knew the official arraign; he'd heard it more than once himself, in his youth. Not conspiracy, of course—that was way out of his league.

"Do you understand the full charges brought against you?" Luke repeated. He'd stayed to the far side of the room from Derrig, Han noted, but then Derrig was a big man. Kid probably figured that standing close enough that you were forced to look _up_ at a man you were arresting wasn't setting the right tone.

The same thought was clearly going through Derrig's head, as he looked again from Commander Wenlock to Luke. "You're a kid," he said, voice scathing.

"With my whole life before me," Luke replied calmly. "You, on the other hand, are a dead man—give or take a day or two."

He walked slightly to the side to finger through the small pile of datacards placed on the console there.

"Five datacards on your person, Derrig. That's pretty damning. Information about transmission codes from the mainframe, I'm told. Decoding algorithms, remote access, retrieval protocols…all very specific. And for a very specific military base, as I'm sure you know."

The man lifted his chin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Instead of answering, Luke looked to the two stormtroopers behind the man. "You can wait outside."

As they filed out without comment, Han automatically moved to reposition himself a little further down the room, closer to Derrig. Luke waited without speaking until the door closed behind the troopers. The moment it had, his eyes went back to the suspected traitor.

"I'm talking about secure comms passing through Sinto Military Base on their way from the Horuz System and the Maw Installation. I'm talking about the location of the Sanctuary Pipeline…which I'm betting is on one of these datacards—am I right?"

"It's not me who failed in my duty," Derrig rasped. "It's the Empire."

"That's not your call to make, Lieutenant Derrig—especially not when you're wearing that uniform. You made an oath of allegiance to your Emperor."

"He doesn't deserve allegiance."

The kid straightened, visibly offended. "I would think very carefully on what you choose to say, Lieutenant Derrig. The order I received said to go to Sinto Barracks and retrieve a collaborator for questioning…it didn't specify what condition he had to be in."

Derrig let out a brief laugh. "And you're going to do what?"

"Let me clarify something very important to you, Derrig: you belong to the Ubiqtorate now. You belong to me. Your life is, quite literally, in my hands…and I'm a very careless man." He tilted his head in reference to Derrig's earlier denunciation. "Must be all the exuberance of youth. Or maybe it's that while other kids were pulling the legs off spiders, I was doing the same with insects like you. You'll be amazed, you really will, how much a man can bleed and not quite die. But blood's just blood—it's how you get it out that counts."

He walked forward a few measured steps as he spoke, expression about as dark as Han had ever seen on the kid, laced with wicked amusement. Han wasn't sure if Luke was launching into some routine, if he was on the defensive after Wenlock's derision, or if the kid really was that fractious right now, but there was a truly cold menace to his voice as he continued, edged with blunt, up-front candor.

"Obviously I'm not expecting you to say anything right now—in fact, I'd go so far as to say I'd be disappointed if you did. I'm just…laying out the ground rules, shall we say. Something to bear in mind when the interrogation starts. That's when the real fun begins…for me, anyway."

Derrig's eyes narrowed…but he was starting to take the kid seriously. Han didn't blame him, as Luke sustained those same politely hostile tones.

"Don't misunderstand me, I'm not your interrogator. That's a highly specialized job that requires daily practice. But I am the man who ended up with your file in my hand this morning, which makes me the man who makes the call as to whether I think we've got all the information we can get from you…or not. The one who can heat up your interrogation, or end it at any time… And that makes me the center of your life from now on. The beginning, the middle…and the end of it. And unfortunately for you…well, you've got the delinquent. You've got the one who has absolutely no moral code and zero principles…someone who does this just for kicks. Someone who knows exactly how guilty you are right now, just from looking at you. I know you've done this many times, that you've been passing this on to someone outside of this base, and that right now, you're worried about the other five datacards hidden in the backturn of the third washbasin in the gym on the second level, ready for the next drop…aren't you?"

Han could see the masked shock in Derrig's face as his lips tightened to a thin line. He frowned himself, wondering when the hell Wenlock had told Luke that without Han hearing—how Wenlock knew at all. Luke had turned to casually walk away again, hands to his back. "I know everything about you, Lieutenant Kern Derrig, and I know everything you did… But I'm still putting you through interrogation, because that's—"

"Hey!" Han yelled out a warning, launching forward as Derrig moved in a flash of speed, hands reaching into his jacket sleeve to pull something free.

It was a specialist holdout blaster, compact but deadly. Han powered forward, knowing he wouldn't reach the man in time as he levelled it at Luke, vaguely aware of the kid spinning back round at the edge of his vision…

And suddenly Derrig was wrenched back—in an instant, as if a silent explosion had detonated affecting him alone, yanking him brutally off his feet in an awkward tumble of limbs, the violence of the act tearing the blaster from his grip as it fired into the floor before him.

He hit the back wall with a sickening smack, remaining there for an excruciating few seconds, his eyes wide, mouth open in a silent shout…

The blood which pumped from his nose as his eyes rolled back was altogether too thick and too dark, and Derrig fell forward like deadweight, limbs loose, head rolling. A bright, scarlet smear on the wall marked the impact behind his head: too much blood, too quickly. Everyone in the room remained frozen in shocked silence as the mangled, broken body slid to the ground, dark, arterial blood matting his hair and oozing from his nose in a surge as he hit the floor.

Han blinked and turned…to see the kid still frozen in place, one hand splayed out before him.

Had he done that—had the kid done that?

"Wait!" Luke launched forward to the man, dropping to his knees on the bloody floor to drag him over, face up. "Don't die—don't die yet!"

His splayed hand pressed against the dying man's forehead and the man shuddered, back arching. Luke leaned in closer as Derrig's eyes opened to stare manically at him.

"Everything," Luke whispered. "Tell me everything…" The man shuddered, body convulsing as he let out a shocked, scarlet-spattered gasp, eyes wide on Luke as he leaned in close, hand to the man's temple.…

Han stared, shocked, not knowing what he was seeing.

Derrig's chest hitched in its final convulsions, then went lax. For long seconds Luke still stared, crouched over, his own breath halted… When he pulled his hand free it was with a gasp, as if by conscious and strenuous effort.

Breathing hard, the kid stared, transfixed, as the dead man's head fell heavily back onto the already sticky scarlet floor…then, as if becoming aware of Han's gaze on him, he stood upright, lifting his chin a fraction too far, a scowl holding about that youthful face for the barest of seconds. He made a brief tug at his uniform to straighten it, then crouched again to wipe his blood-wet hands over the corpse's clothes before he bent to pick up the small holdout blaster, turning it over in his hands.

"That's it? He thought he'd kill me with this?" He held it up with a steady hand, voice dismissive. "He may as well have thrown it at me."

Han glanced down, seeing not the small holdout blaster in Luke's hand, but the dead man's blood beneath his fingernails. He stared as the kid—_the kid_—turned coolly about, issuing orders as if nothing untoward had happened, eyes on Wenlock's lieutenant.

"Put the body in stasis and have it sent to Intel at the Palace for autopsy."

"Yes, Sir." The Lieutenant stepped forward without hesitation, pretty damn ready to give the kid some respect now.

Luke's voice was that of someone running through routine. "Seal his quarters, ready for forensics—as well as the Gym on the second level. Nobody touches his belongings, his comlinks, the terminals he used, the ships he flew, his speeders—nothing. This base is now locked down by command of the Ubiqtorate, until further notice. No leave, no comms, nothing comes in, nothing goes out 'till Intel clears you. You know the routine." Luke had reached Commander Wenlock now, and stopped, his voice taking on a brittle edge.

"And you…" Fuming, the kid held up the blood-smeared holdout blaster. "You didn't search him?"

"Yes, Sir!" The Commander stared, eyes still wide with shock—and Han didn't fail to notice that he'd suddenly remembered the kid's rank and seemed eager to use it.

"Yes, Sir?" Luke almost yelled as he aped the Commander. "How? _Visually?_ How can you miss a firearm, idiot!"

"Sir, I…"

"He should have been in detention, strip-searched and in standard-issue grays already. Instead you left him up here, barely confined, unrestrained, and searched so shoddily that he managed to conceal a holdout blaster! I'm surrounded by incompetence!"

"I'm sorry, Sir, I…"

"Oh? Well, that's all right then. Maybe you'd like to come back with me to stand in front of the Emperor and say that? I'm sure he'll be very understanding. In fact based on your actions today, maybe I should take _you_ back as a collaborator."

The base Commander's eyes went wider still, prepared to believe now that the youth had that kind of authority. "Sir, I had no idea…!"

"I wouldn't go bandying that around if I were you, Commander." Luke was dismissive now, anger cooling to frosty indifference as he held out the blaster expectantly. Wenlock took it, then instantly lifted it from his hand by the barrel, his lip curling in distaste at the blood-wet imprint it left as Luke walked from the room without looking back. "If you want to keep your commission, I'd suggest you have something better than that by the time an Intel unit gets here."

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Sat on the shuttle, Luke patted his pockets as it rose, silently cursing the fact that his uniform allowed no room to carry personal belongings. Clamping his jaw, he tried not to think about the spice he needed right now, aware of Solo's wary eyes on him.

The Corellian actually thought Luke was feeling guilty for having killed thea man, he knew, when in fact that couldn't be further from his thoughts. Instead, Luke's full attention was given over to what exactly he would tell the Emperor when he returned to the palace empty-handed. Because whatever it was, it wouldn't be enough.

They remained quiet for a long time during the journey back, Solo's gaze surreptitiously flitting again and again back to Luke who, wrapped up in his own frustrations and brooding in silent clouds of self-depreciating anger, ignored him.

Eventually, his sense blasting out a driving need to know, Solo voiced his thoughts. "What's it like?"

"…What?" Brought out of his fugue-like frustration, Luke glanced across.

"That…" Solo said ineloquently, having no vocabulary for the world he now inhabited, "that…stuff you did. It's the Force, isn't it? What's it like?"

"The Force?" Luke asked, surprised, although he really shouldn't be. He liked Solo for just this reason—because he wasn't the type to get intimidated. He stubbornly refused to be ruled by awe or fear. He was uneasy, of course, wary of this new and unfathomable thing, but time would temper that, and turn apprehension into cautious familiarity. Which was the closest Luke ever came to any kind of friendship…and he liked to maintain that detached distance. There was safety in solitude—for both of them.

He stared at Solo, suddenly curious as to just how far he could push the man. "I could turn you inside out and rip you to pieces and you couldn't hope to stop me. Even if you knew—if I allowed you to know my intent. Even if you held a gun to my head you still couldn't stop me. In the amount of time it took for that single impulse to go from your brain to your trigger finger, you'd already be dead. Fractured and fragmented, reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye… Or I could make it slow—rupture your spleen, collapse your lungs, tear at the arteries in your brain—take memories or awareness with absolute precision. Blind you or break you a bone at a time."

A long, considered silence stretched, measured by the even gaze held in those brown eyes…

"I was thinking more along the lines of, 'Okay, I guess'," Solo said at last, breaking the moment with humor. "Or maybe, 'It gives me a bit of a headache sometimes'."

The smallest suggestion of a smile brushed Luke's lips as he sat back, amused, the tension completely dissipated.

"I don't get headaches," he lied easily, turning away. "I give them."

Solo lifted his eyebrows in a quick shrug of acknowledgment before asking, "Just out of curiosity, you ever…lose an adjutant?"

"No, I generally know where most of them end up," Luke avoided.

"Aha." Solo set his head on one side, that blithe lop-sided smile still hanging on his face, as if it had the power to protect him from anything. "So…my predecessor, for instance, when he left, did he have all his limbs intact?"

"Near as dammit," Luke said without elaborating.

"Just wondering." Solo grinned easily, the atmosphere completely alleviated now by the mixture of his easygoing nature and stubborn refusal to be browbeaten. "Cos the amount of credit that they're payin' me…I could maybe lose a digit, somethin' like that, but most of my major limbs I'm very attached to—and I'd like to stay that way."

Luke resettled, amused. "He was missing an eye," he allowed at last, watching Solo consider this for brief moments.

"See, I kinda like both of mine. Helps with that whole depth perception thing—always useful for a pilot."

Again Luke let the silence hang, but this time it was less fraught, more gamely. "But then, he was missing that when he came into my employ," he said finally, turning away.

What he should offer, he knew, what Solo was searching for, in view of the day's events, was some kind of reassurance that his position here afforded him a certain immunity. But it would be an empty reassurance and Luke knew it. He didn't know himself what his reaction would be from incident to incident. He certainly hadn't gone into the garrison today intending to kill the man…

But even if he did offer some pointless guarantee, it wasn't necessarily Luke that Solo should worry about. It was Palpatine who had removed Luke's previous adjutant…and the last time he'd seen him, the man _was_ in good health. Though then again, Luke hadn't been there when his Master had turned on the man.

He glanced to Solo, feeling a flare of guilt as a deeper knowledge came to the fore. Because people died around him. One way or another, people died. That was a fact, inevitable and inescapable: everyone caught up in his life eventually paid the price. No point in getting attached. No point in bothering to view anyone around him as anything more than a temporary amusement. Only he and Palpatine, the Master who was privy to Luke's guilty secret, remained—that was the way his Master ordained it. Some lasted longer than others, by dint of their usefulness or simple convenience, but the longer they stayed, the more that death mark stained them. He needed to do nothing—neither acknowledge nor deny it, intervene or withdraw. They still died. Darkness surrounded him…it always had, his Master had said, and proven, time and again. Darkness and death…that was what he was made of, what he knew. What he feared and embraced, because he couldn't walk away…it was, his Master whispered with such merciless conviction, what he was made of.

Solo turned, aware of Luke's eyes on him, and Luke glanced away to stare out into wispy cirrus clouds, as turbulence rocked the shuttle just slightly, its grumbling vibrations reassuring. The pilot should drop below the tropopause, Luke reflected distantly. This close to the palace region, the massive buildings themselves acted like mountain ranges in their scale and density, their peaks and troughs altering wind shear through direction and convection. A few hundred feet would pull them clear of it.

Amused at his own ability to change a line of thought so completely in avoidance of unpleasant truths, Luke glanced back to Solo, who had taken his own eyes back to the tedious view. No, the Corellian was sharp; if he didn't like the heat, he was smart enough and confident enough to step away from the fire, Luke was sure. Though he didn't think Solo would.

Strange how people found each other—saw a part of themselves reflected in another and gained some sense of place from it. In Solo, Luke saw someone who had lived his life on the brink for so long that it was normal for him now. In fact he actually needed it; would willingly push to the very edge of catastrophic failure every once in a while, just to feel alive. Luke understood that; he'd lived his life beneath that same pressure. No reprieves, no protection from the possibility of failure and the customary punishments therein.

Security, like stability, had always been...an empty concept, for Luke. And anyway, as Indo so often said, it was only ever some imagined ideal, and there was no place for naïve ideals in real life. No point in craving something that simply didn't exist—not here.

Luke rose, heading for the cockpit to put his first report in, knowing that it should be his version that the Emperor read first, rather than the base Commander's probably less than glowing account.

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They arrived back at the palace just before dusk, as Han craned round in his seat to watch the hulking structure loom above Coruscant's skyline, its inky blue sandstone reducing it to a sharp contrast of dark, inset shadows and gargantuan slabs of smooth-faced stone, lit by huge floodlights from below.

They hadn't talked much for the rest of the journey back, though Han had been aware of the kid's eyes on him. He'd wanted to ask more— about what the kid could do, about what he _had_ done, about this Force thing…but word came in long before they'd landed that Luke was summoned to the Emperor's presence and the kid, not surprisingly, had fallen to silent brooding.

And slowly, as Han had watched in silence, his focus taken by the twin drops of blood on Luke's neck, which had spattered from the dying man's final breath, it all came together. Why the kid was here, why he wore that uniform, how valuable he could be to Palpatine…it all slotted into place with perfect precision.

Just to underline the Emperor's command, a junior officer—still probably five years older than Luke—was waiting on the Palace's military pad with word of that immediate summons. They walked the endless corridors from one of the restricted landing pads in the main monolith, moving higher through the stark structure of the upper ziggurat towards the Emperor's private territory, the turrets.

Han had never once entered—and from the sounds of things, practically no one else did, even here. This was the final reserve, the elite inner sanctum whose entrance was barred and guarded, access to which so many here seemed to dedicate their lives to achieving. The guards who lined the long walk of the monumental entrance were dressed in scarlet, their faces unseen, their stillness unsettling. The officer who approached as they neared, nodded once to Luke in recognition, and had the thick slab-doors of clear, cord-strung transparisteel which barred the imposing entrance retracted, the huge double-doors beyond sliding majestically back. Apparently the kid was well-known here, his face enough to open doors. Han briefly remembered Gorn's words—that Luke had lived here; in the austere grandeur of the Emperor's private apartments.

Endless stretches of silent hallways, tall and imposing, drew Han's eyes up to their distant, heavily corniced rooflines, repetitive details picked out in stark, dark shades. Many of the stories-high corridors were unadorned, save for precisely placed arrangements of sterile, pristine furniture which were dwarfed by their surroundings, serving only to emphasize the immense scale of their setting. Tall slabs of heavy cut stone or dark, polished wood loomed in the pensive silence of empty, overbearing spaces which echoed every step and whisper.

Luke walked a half step ahead of Han in tense silence, without once looking to either side or needing to pause for his bearings as they walked the countless identical halls. He slowed to a stop before tall doors of figured ebony, bracing straight and setting his jaw in silence as they slowly opened.

They entered a huge chamber clad entirely in polished red basalt, square-cut columns supporting the heavy mass of a dark, coffered ceiling, the flawlessly polished flagstones reflecting already lofty pillars to double the height of the vast, imposing chamber. As the hard stone underfoot reverberated to their boot-steps, a small group of serious men in dark robes turned to glance and whisper—the first time Han had seen anyone other than guards.

Luke slowed, dropping his voice as he spoke to Han. "Listen, this may get a little…volatile. Don't do _anything_, understand?"

Han's mind went back to the kid's last run-in with the Emperor—to the unexpected and unrestrained blow which had sent the kid staggering to the side. His eyes went briefly to the still-forming bruises he'dseen on the kid's face this morning. "It was Palpatine who did that, wasn't it?"

The kid glanced down. "Indo was right, it was my own fault."

"How was…" Han caught himself; now wasn't the time. "Listen, why don't we wait—let him cool down?"

"He doesn't cool down, he stews. The longer you leave it, the more he thinks on it and the angrier he gets… Maybe you shouldn't come in."

"Or maybe you could just tell him it was me who…"

"No! Don't _ever_ tell him anything was you, understand?" The kid had stopped to turn on Han, genuinely anxious. Whispers rose from the far side of the hall, and Luke glanced briefly their way, quieting his own voice again. "You should…you should wait here."

Han straightened, reluctant to leave the kid to face the music alone. "What, you think I'm incapable of keeping my mouth shut, like anyone else?"

"Pretty much." The kid had turned to start walking again, so that Han had to rush to catch up, suddenly determined not to let the kid go in there alone.

"Hey, I can keep quiet."

"You've never kept quiet about a thing in your life."

"Yes I have!"

The kid threw a brief scowl at Han, voice still quiet. "I read why they court-marshalled you."

"Totally different situation." They were getting closer to the clique now—closer to the doors. Han kept pace. "C'mon, I...I don't want you to go in on your own, alright?"

Luke glanced to him then quickly away, visibly uneasy. "I'm fine. I've managed a long time without you here."

"Well now you don't have to."

The kid stopped dead, Han's words turning him about. "Why do you care?"

Han wondered if the kid had any idea how he looked as he said that, half question, half appeal. Fifteen years old and barely to Han's shoulder-height, already scuffed and roughed up from his last meeting with what was clearly the only man he was even vaguely afraid of…but ready to go back in there to face the music, if only because he knew damn well that he had absolutely no choice. And Han remembered what that felt like.

Concern, respect…some weird sense of connection with a kid he had nothing and everything in common with…in the end, he said none of that—if the kid was what Han thought he was, then he'd pretty much know anyway. He just shrugged inarticulately. "C'mon, let me do this."

Luke held his eye for long seconds, torn… "Your word—give me your word that you'll keep quiet."

"Absolutely," Han agreed instantly, grasping at the offer.

"This is important."

"…Okay, I get it. I can do this."

The kid didn't say anything more as they set forward again. Didn't look to Han at all as they passed through the somber men, regarded with the kind of look normally reserved for those about to face the firing squad. Han swore he could even feel it coming from the Red Guard.

Stood before the doors, Pestage nodded once as he moved to press the release plate. "His Excellency is waiting for you."

Luke braced, walking forward without pause as the doors to the audience chamber swung back, Han close behind him.

They were barely six paces into the cavernous chamber when the Emperor turned. "You!"

He strode forward, the polished cane he normally relied on so heavily forgotten in his fury. Luke backstepped quickly as the Emperor came forward with pale hands outstretched, long fingers grasping.

He reached Luke and grabbed at the scruff of his uniformed jacket, his other hand taking a hank of hair as he powered the unresisting kid backwards past Han and to the side, until his body and head made contact with one of the massive pillars set into the side wall with a thud loud enough to make him gasp.

No more than ten paces away with his back to Han, Palpatine closed to within inches of the kid's face, voice cracked with rage as he banged the kid's head back again. "I give you one task—one task!" He wheeled about, dragging the boy with him, and Han took a step forward, the drive to intervene overwhelming.

The next second the Emperor released him in a throw. Luke half-flinched, half steeled himself not to as he came to a stop, straightening instantly.

"I didn't…"

Five paces away now, Palpatine wasn't interested. "I ordered you to bring one man back here for interrogation and you failed to do so. Why!"

"He had a blaster!"

His back still to Han, Palpatine stalked slowly forward again and the kid spoke faster.

"I only meant to stop him."

"Don't lie to me. You can pluck a single eyelash at sixty paces—you're perfectly capable of stopping a man from firing some irrelevant sidearm. You could have taken the weapon, you could have knocked him unconscious, deflected the bolt… You could have done as I ordered and kept him alive!"

"I—"

The kid didn't get a chance to finish. As he spoke, Palpatine brought his hand out, palm flat, and Han watched wide eyed as the same invisible force that Luke had used to throw the spy against the wall a few hours earlier, was now turned on Luke by the Emperor, hurling the kid back helplessly to impact against the tall, squared pillars which stood between the wide windows. He hit with enough force to knock the air from his lungs in a gasp and drop him to the floor in a huddle, struggling for breath.

This time Han started forward, but Palpatine had already reached the boy, grabbing at his hair to yank his head up. "Don't _ever_ give excuses to me…don't dare give validations. I don't care!"

Han stopped again, torn between his word and the reality of the situation. The kid said nothing, yielding completely beneath the onslaught… And maybe he knew from long experience just how to handle this, because the Emperor glared for a few seconds more then turned away, anger satiated, still shaking his head.

"The man made you kill him—he forced your hand." Palpatine rolled his eyes in annoyance as he turned back to Luke, his tone that of someone stating the glaringly obvious as he slowly worked himself into a fury again, voice rising. "He knew that if you killed him, there'd be no way to know of accomplices or contacts. Dead men tell no tales. Now we have no leads, no way to continue this, and no idea how much information has been leaked already. Now we have a cold trail. With a prisoner we could have found out who he was working for and with, what had been passed over, how deep the infiltration went."

The Emperor was almost on him again now.

"I had…" Luke was still wheezing, struggling for breath as he remained hunched, voice broken by uneven gasps. "I got something…from the man's head… As he died—I got something. Images…buildings. A place, a meeting. A name—_Skyhook._"

Palpatine stopped, silent for long seconds. "Go on."

"He didn't have any image of…he didn't know precisely why, but he knew he needed to get information from the construction sites—the Maw Installation and Horuz. I said the names and sensed his reaction. And the images I saw, the building, it was on Coruscant. In...in the lower levels of the Myzicc District. I recognized the streets."

"That's less than an hour from here."

Luke nodded, hand to his face now where his nose had started to bleed. "He knew somebody there—thought it was safe. _Skyhook_ is something to do with that."

"Stand up." Palpatine's voice was quiet and clipped, but with his back still to Han, there was no way to read his face.

The kid rose, still obviously in a lot of pain, his breath short and one arm about his ribs. But he stood up and he looked Palpatine in the eye, struggling to level out his breathing.

"Anything more?"

"No, Master—but I'll get it from what I have."

"You seem very sure."

"He was dying—he was past withholding or trying to deceive. I…I guided his thoughts then followed them back."

Palpatine stepped forward and Luke instantly stepped back, but the pillar behind him stopped any escape as the Emperor closed on the boy, one gaunt hand snaking out to wrap about the back of Luke's neck as he made to sidestep then thought better of it and held still, leaning back from that wire-tight grip, shoulders tensing.

Though his face was hidden in the shadows of that dark cowl, even at this distance Palpatine's baleful ocher eyes were visible to Han, fixed on the kid as the Emperor pulled him in regardless. "Show me."

Han watched the kid close his eyes, head tilting forward without hesitation. The Emperor too stilled…then let out a brief, snorting laugh which curled dry lips into a satisfied sneer. He opened his eyes, the threat in his tone belying his words.

"You're a very clever child, do you know that?"

"Thank you, Master."

"Very clever." Hand still about the kid's neck, Palpatine pulled a little harder, and Han could see Luke trying to lean back against the pressure as the Emperor continued, his voice gracious, though his words were anything but. "I've killed men for less than you've done today, you know that too."

"Yes, Master."

The Emperor nodded, inches from Luke's face, those keen yellow eyes all that were visible in the shadows of his heavy cowl. "And what makes you think you are exempt, even now?"

"…Nothing, Master."

"Nothing? Then you think I should kill you?"

"No, Master."

"Make up your mind, child."

Luke stayed silent, and Han shifted uncomfortably from across the room, uncertain what to do. Sharp ocher eyes came to rest on him for a second then flicked back to the boy. "You're making your new toy soldier nervous. Stand up straight."

The kid straightened as the Emperor watched, eyes narrowed in critical judgment…then nodded. "You did well, to pull useful images from the flurry of a dying man's thoughts—to hold that contact as he perished. Yes, you did well."

His hand still about the back of the kid's head, the Emperor leaned in as Luke glanced down, so that his forehead rested on Luke's. He murmured something Han couldn't quite hear, and Luke nodded slightly without speaking…

Then Palpatine stepped back to walk away, and Luke pushed himself off from the pillar and limped to the exit without once looking to Han, who glanced between them, wondering what was said. Reaching the door, Luke struggled to bow, hand clutching his ribs, though the Emperor didn't even bother to acknowledge it. As the doors behind them opened, Han did the same, for no other reason right then than that Luke had, and he didn't want to make this any worse.

They reached the threshold of the door before the Emperor spoke again, eyes remaining on the evening shadows of the cityscape far below. "We shall speak again on this later, child."

Beside Han, the kid's shoulders froze momentarily as he broke pace…then he walked in silence from the chamber, and through the massive, echoing stretch of the red-stone ante-room beyond.

No one looked or commented as Luke limped past—and Han didn't expect them to. Even he, he reflected bitterly, was beginning to learn when and where to speak out…and when to look the other way.

So he walked slowly down those stark, somber corridors beside the limping kid, knowing better than to offer help.

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They arrived back at Luke's rooms in silence, their pace having slowed as Luke's breathing had labored, his discomfort obvious. Twice he'd actually stopped for a few seconds, grating his jaw against his mounting struggle. Both times, Han had simply stood, waiting without watching, knowing that any attempt to reach out or try to help the kid would be rebuffed.

Han walked all the way down through the apartment to the mirrored wall with Luke, before the kid simply shook his head, disappearing into the gloom of his own rooms in silence, Han once again left on the outside.

For a second he stared at Luke's receding back, weighing whether to go in anyway, but as the dark mercury-glass doors closed, he heard the sound of running in the corridor behind him, and a distorted form was reflected as it barrelled forward in the uneven reflection of the irregular glass. Han turned as Gorn slowed, eyes wide, face pale. "The Emperor wants to see you."

"Wants to see me?"

"What'd you do, Solo?"

"Me? Nothing!"

"Well Pestage just commed down from the Audience Chamber, and the Emperor wants to see you now. As in right now." When Han still didn't move, Gorn stepped close, plucking at his sleeve. "As in, right now—and run."

Han was at the turrets inside fifteen minutes, passing through the same set of guards as before, but ID'd this time, his name checked against a screen of awaited 'visitors.'

He was escorted just three corridors in through those same towering hallways which reduced all who walked through them to insignificance, then marched across the massive, echoing space of another spartan hall whose ominous silence left him feeling that he should tiptoe through the vast, empty space, its ornate clusters of hanging lights unlit. Standing outside the tall doors of the Audience Chamber, under the close scrutiny of the Red Guards, Han rubbed at the high collar of his uniform and wondered what the hell he'd done, to be dragged up before Palpatine. It was obvious it was about today, of course, but if the Emperor had something to say, why not say it when he'd been with the kid not an hour earlier—why this?

_The Emperor. _Han swallowed to get some moisture into his dry mouth, and in the still silence, it seemed ridiculously loud. _Hell's teeth, get a grip, Solo._

The doors swung open and Saté Pestage stared with silent disapproval, nodding Han in. The vast chamber was dark and silent, banks of hanging glow-orbs barely lit, so that their meager light did little more than define the shadows. Han's footfalls echoed and reverberated between the vaulted ceiling and long rows of tall pillars, no furnishings to soften their resonance. To the far end of the long chamber, a single figure cloaked in richly brocaded, inky garnet robes stood hunched before the three-story windows, staring out over the city. Pondering all he possessed, Han supposed.

He made himself maintain measured strides, coming to a slow halt before the single step of the barely raised dais. Did you still bow if the guy wasn't looking at you? Remembering that the kid had done so earlier today, Han inclined at the hip, bringing his heels together with military precision. When he straightened, his face was that little bit harder…because he remembered what else this man had done to the kid.

The tall doors drew silently closed behind him as Pestage left, and Han was alone, staring at the hunched back of the man who ruled the galaxy.

Silence stretched…

"Lieutenant Solo, of Corellia." The Emperor didn't turn.

Did he answer? Han wasn't even entirely sure what to call the man. Indo hadn't mentioned this…clearly hadn't expected it. "Uh, yes…Sir."

"A pilot in my military."

"Yes, Sir."

"With a less than exemplary record."

Han didn't speak—there was little to say against that.

"And now an adjutant to my ward. The first, in fact, that I have not myself appointed. The boy grows up. A pity…but then, he's as amusing a distraction as he ever was." The Emperor still hadn't turned, his grating voice even, conversational almost. "Viscount Indo disapproves of my ward's choice, you should know. Myself, I feel now is a good time for the boy to be exposed to outside influences. He will see them often in his intended vocation, and if he stumbles at the first hurdle, well then what use is he to me?"

The Emperor finally turned…and this close, Han could see the wasted suggestion of waxen skin beneath the heavy cowl he wore, in places chalky white, in others almost bruised, so thin was it. He felt his lip twitch and tightened his jaw, fighting to hold the Emperor's eye when every instinct blared to look away.

Palpatine took a step forward, leaning heavily on that burred and gnarled cane again…and the sulphur-yellow eyes that met Han's seemed almost to glow in the shadows of that heavy cowl. Han tensed against the desire to step back, and the man before him loosed a slow grin, papery flesh folding in deep lines.

"As fascinating a potential as he embodies, to become an agent on my behalf, if he cannot fulfill my basic expectations, well then…what further use is he? You understand—I have invested a great deal of time and effort in this boy's education, Lieutenant Solo…a great deal. I would hate to see my efforts…undermined."

The Emperor turned away again to stare out over the city, and Han loosed the breath he hadn't even known he was holding. If the Emperor heard, he chose not to mention it.

"The boy, Luke…he was very young when he came into my care, very young." The Emperor paused slightly, considering. "Or not young enough; it's difficult to say. His first years here were…trying, I think. It took us a while to find our way around each other. It seemed every day was given over entirely to establishing precedents. The rules of life—my rules."

Having seen just exactly how those rules were laid down, Han felt his lip curl just slightly. Those ochre eyes came back to him as one corner of the Emperor's mouth twitched in a lipless grin.

"But children are such wonderfully resilient creatures, I've found." Palpatine glanced away, tilting his head in consideration as the heavy folds of his rich gown resettled about him. "Fascinating, because you see, they have no life experience; whatever they encounter for the first time, if no one acts as if it is out of place, then they accept it as…well, normal. They have no frame of reference, you see…quite fascinating."

Han moved slightly and the Emperor turned, as if remembering his presence. Those gleaming eyes skewered Han, sharp and penetrating. "You think me harsh with him." His snide smile widened to a grin—dark, pitted teeth against sallow skin. "Oh don't bother to deny it… But then, I don't think you would bother with that, would you? You see the universe as it is, Lieutenant Solo. And you speak that way too, hmm?"

Palpatine smiled as Han remained still, jaw tightening. "Or, in the absence of something amenable to say, you remain silent. An admirable trait. Perhaps the next time you think me over-strict, you should remember what he is—what he is capable of."

Han held his silence, though inside he was burning to ask just what exactly the Emperor was capable of, that he'd turned those same abilities on the kid today. The Emperor paused just a fraction, as if to give him the opportunity to say just what was on his mind…and Han remained still, lips pursed.

Grinning, the Emperor continued. "Before you judge, you should think back to your experiences with the boy today…or on the next example, which I'm sure he will soon provide. A child, capable of killing by power of thought alone, Lieutenant Solo. One person, ten, a hundred, it makes no difference to him. A single thought. Imagine—to simply _think_ something, and it comes into being. That's what he's capable of. How uncompromising would you imagine one must be in one's self-control, to master such a power? How disciplined, even as a child? You look at him and you see the child, Lieutenant Solo—you are mistaken. You are looking at a weapon capable of immense destruction, on a scale you cannot imagine. He is a walking time-bomb, as all his kind were… Yet I let him live, relatively unconstrained. All I ask in return is that he conforms to certain rules, rules put in place to protect those around him—yourself included. And if he breaks those rules then yes, I am unforgiving. I am harsh. But I do it for the greater good—that he learns to control what he is. That he learns to serve his Empire and his Emperor. That he learns to live in conventional society and to comport himself with restraint when he walks among lesser beings."

Han's lip twitched again at that, and those yellow eyes filled with malicious amusement at realization of the unthinking insult. Han pursed his lips, refusing to be drawn as the Emperor held his eyes for long, expectant moments, before turning again to stare out across the haze of the city below, voice contemplative.

"There are those who said he should not live, knowing what he was. Few know of course, but those who do, I trust their judgment…yet I overrode them. I protected him. I still do… And I do so for one reason: he has a use here, a duty, a calling of far greater importance. He will serve his Emperor in a very special position—one that I have trained him for his whole life. He will become an Emperor's Hand, an extension of my will, answerable to me alone and…ah, I see their reputation precedes them!"

Han's chin lifted fractionally, though aside from that, he'd been sure that nothing had been visible on his face. But he knew of Emperor's Hands; had heard whispers about them. Rumors of someone who knew someone who'd heard of someone who had seen one in action once, but nothing more. Had heard that they were the most capable, the most fanatical, the most devoted… And slowly, it all came together.

Imperial Intel—the Ubiqtorate, which pervaded and controlled the military and the public spheres completely—was simply a proving ground for Luke, Han realized. A way to get the kid used to taking and giving orders in Palpatine's name. A way to expose him to every facet of the military and its workings so that when he went dark and became a Hand, he'd be able to disappear in any position there, familiar with its workings. A shadow, moving from assignment to assignment, answerable only to…to the man who'd just stated without the slightest guilt that his 'protection' of the kid extended exactly as far as Luke remained useful. Fifteen, and his whole life was already worked out for him.

"Emperor's Hands are like no other," Palpatine continued smugly. "They obey completely, without hesitation and without question…so you can understand how very important it is to me whom the boy comes into contact with at this influential time in his life. You can understand that I need to have complete confidence in those around him…or he ceases to be of value to me."

Palpatine paused meaningfully, head tilting so that the light flashed across pale skin and made narrowed eyes seem to glow. "I trust that, knowing this, you will endeavor to ensure the boy's continued value to me. You understand—I have known the boy for a very long time, and he keeps no secrets from me, ever. If I were to believe that you were in any way circumventing the ideals that I have spent so long instilling—those of fealty and loyalty and obedience—if I were ever to believe that my little experiment had been…compromised, then it would be terminated…along with all its components. I trust I have made my intentions clear?"

Han remained silent, and the corner of the Emperor's thin mouth lifted just slightly in mocking amusement. "This has been a most interesting discussion. A valuable opportunity to air our views and our standpoints…the ones which matter, anyway. It has, I hope, brought us to a greater understanding of our roles…and their limitations." The Emperor was already turning away in dismissal. "You may return to your duties, Lieutenant Solin."

"Solo," Han corrected.

Palpatine's eyes came to his…and this time, Han held that stare without blinking. Held it for long seconds…until eventually that sallow skin folded into an empty smile.

Han nodded once, then saluted sharply and made a precise military turn, walking from the room without looking back…listening to his heart pound in his chest the whole way.

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By the time he got back to the apartment, he'd grappled his frayed nerves into some kind of order again, half amused and half disbelieving of his recklessly stupid stunt in those last moments, mouth still dry at the thought of it.

Still, he thought he'd held his piece admirably, all things considered. There was no way, no way at all, that someone like Palpatine—a man who had just gone to the trouble of calling for and reading Han's military and civilian records—would have forgotten his name. It was a deliberate little powerplay. Rash as it was, he might have been tempted to say a hell of a lot more, had it not just been made patently obvious that his own actions would reflect on the kid, Indo's warning that Luke would eventually be answerable for some 'inevitable faux-pas' the only thing that had stopped Han from pushing further. That and the guy with the glowing yellow eyes, of course.

_Inevitable faux-pas_… Han had a feeling he'd been given that first one for free; he also got the distinct impression that it was a once-only occurrence.

Walking into the kid's apartment, he leaned into the staff office and Gorn, who was rubbing at a spot on the wall just inside the door, looked up, wide eyed. "What did he want?"

Han rolled his eyes. "He wanted to know why some guy named Therne Gorn couldn't keep his nose out of anyone's business."

Gorn paled. "Really?"

"No, not really," Han said, amused at the reaction he'd instigated—but a little clearer having met Palpatine face to face now, as to why.

Han looked to the spot that Gorn was rubbing; there on the wall, just below the lighting plate, was a perfect fine-line sketch of Gorn, asleep on his office chair, his booted feet up on the desk, head lolled back and to one side, mouth slightly open.

Gorn too, looked at it. "Oh, I just took that temporary long-range schedule off to trash it and this was underneath. Luke must have tiptoed in here in the early hours some morning when I was on duty. Must have drawn it, put the schedule back up then crept off again—sneaky little Dug. Nice little time-bomb waiting to be discovered, if I'd taken that schedule down in front of Indo. I've been trying to clean it off before Indo sees it anyway, but the ink won't wash off."

"Why'd he draw it on the wall?"

"You're kidding, right? He draws on anything—I'm lucky he didn't draw on me. Seriously! One time I fell asleep and he drew on my forehead."

Han laughed, momentarily distracted. "That kid really needs a pad of flimsiplast."

"_Don't_ give him flimsiplast—Indo'll go mad." Gorn lifted a freshly printed hard-copy schedule and positioned it over the sketch, its edge pushed awkwardly against the doorframe in order to cover the entire sketch. "I think we're going to have to stick long-range schedules over it forever now… What d'you think?"

Han raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. "Great, fine. Have you seen Luke?"

"No, I think he's kicking around though."

Han stepped back out, ignoring Gorn's further questions. He was on his way to the mirrored rooms when something made him pause and turn to those double doors which opened out onto the narrow ledge of the balcony. When he got close he saw they were open a crack.

He stepped out onto the ledge, and the kid was sitting on the floor of the narrow space, legs out before him, ankles threaded between the balustrade to dangle over the drop. In his mouth was a half-smoked spice stick, another stub already on the balconet floor beside him.

He didn't look up. "So what did he say?"

Han closed the doors and sat down, forced to pull his knees up in the confined space as he looked up into the sharp, clear night sky.

Luke turned, voice quiet. "He offer you money to walk away? A title maybe?"

"Actually it was more of a 'Don't step outta line, or I'll come get your sorry ass.' "

"Really? 'Cos you don't strike me as the kind of guy who would…oh, wait." The kid nodded, voice resigned and way too knowing for his age. "It was a 'Don't get the kid to step outta line or I'll come get _his_ sorry ass,' wasn't it?"

Han didn't speak and Luke shrugged, voice casual. "Don't worry about that. He's been hanging that over my head long before you arrived."

"Yeah, I figured you don't seem the type who needs any extra help hacking people off," Han nodded lightly.

They remained silent for a while as Luke took a couple of long, lazy draws on the spice stick, its dark red smoke taken almost instantly by the night's cool wind. Eventually he leaned over slightly to offer it to Han, who took it off him only to flick it over the balustrade. The kid said nothing, simply lifted a small marquetry box from his other side and took out another spice stick, a momentary flash of bright orange flaring in the darkness as he lit it up.

"You shouldn't smoke those things, you know," Han said at last. "They'll…" _kill you._

"So when are you leaving?" Luke asked without preamble.

"Leaving—why?"

"People generally take a big step back very soon after Palpatine has his little talk with them."

"Likes to have all your attention, doesn't he?"

"He likes to have all of everybody's attention. He generally gets it, one way or another."

Han glanced sideways, slowly reassessing his opinion of the kid who was sitting beside him, nose still bloody from hours ago, with yesterday's bruises darkening beneath his eyes. "You know, I think we should start again."

Luke glanced to him, confused. "Start what?"

"I've heard a lot of stuff since I've been here…but I just realized, very little of it was actually firsthand." Han leaned over, hand out. "Solo—Han Solo: naval lieutenant, second class. TIE Pilot. Way, way out of his depth here."

The kid stared a few seconds, the glowing spice stick hanging loose at the corner of his mouth. Then he shrugged, and reached his hand out with wry amusement. "Luke Antilles. Treading water…on and off."

"So how'd you end up here?"

"Long story…and if you're leaving tonight, you should probably start packing."

"Well, you know, if he'd offered to make me a wealthy man, I just might've gone. Title? Maybe... But a rap on the knuckles?" Han pulled an unimpressed face. "I don't think so."

The kid loosed a youthful smile, then looked away, tone serious. "You should be careful. He doesn't give many warnings."

"So I see."

Luke glanced down, turning the red-papered spice stick in his fingers. "He was right—I shouldn't've killed the man. Derrig. Kern Derrig" He said the last deliberately, as if to remind himself that the man had a name.

"He pulled a gun on you."

"Still…"

"That the first guy you ever killed?"

Luke laughed lightly, eyes remaining on the spice stick. "No…no."

"That the first guy you ever got in trouble for killing?"

Again that quiet laugh. "Well, this month."

Han stared for long moments again… "So how come you can do that stuff?"

The kid seemed to consider for a while before he spoke, though his next words clarified why. "My father was a Jedi… Palpatine told me a long time ago, in the first few nights I was here. Well, he told Vader, and I was there. Vader and my father…they had a history, I think, because Vader went wild, incensed, absolutely outraged." Luke's voice trailed off as old memories held him to silence for long moments… When he spoke again, his voice was perfectly level. "So really, as the illegitimate son of an outlawed Jedi, I should have been killed in the purges—that's what they say."

He said it with such clinical disinterest, Han thought, wondering how many times the kid had been told that already: _"Be grateful—you should be dead now."_

"What was his name?"

"Kenobi," Luke said. "Obi-Wan Kenobi."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Luke blew neat scarlet smoke rings out into the clear night, to be taken by the wind.

Han tried again. "So you knew him?"

"No. I knew his name, from when Palpatine had told Vader who my father was. I sneaked into the Intel mainframe in the main palace ziggurat a few years back and tracked down some old records. They have all the pre-Empire records there—the real ones," Luke added casually, eyes on the dark horizon. "Kenobi was some General in the Clone Wars. I saw a picture of him, when he was about…maybe twenty or thirty, I think."

"Yeah? You look like him?"

The kid shrugged. "I guess. He had blue eyes and dark blond hair. He looked my build though, which is depressing."

"Why?"

Luke shrugged again. "I was kinda hoping I'd get a growth spurt soon."

Han couldn't help but smile. "You're about average for your age."

The kid glanced at him, knowing beyond his years. "I don't know if you've noticed, but average doesn't really cut it around here."

Han laughed, glancing out across the endless pinpoint lights of the distant city. Then his smile fell away. "So I guess he's dead, huh?"

Luke shook his head but didn't look up, instead concentrating on blowing across the tip of the spice stick, so that it glowed brightly. "He's still alive. He's a militant—an anarchist. He was one of the original instigators of the plot to kill Palpatine during the Clone Wars, and he tried to kill Vader too. Palpatine says he's a coward who uses the Rebels to hide behind, but they're too stupid to see it…he says he's a thug and a murderer."

"What do you say?"

Again the kid shrugged, kicking his heels. "I guess he's right."

"Does Kenobi know about you?"

"I don't know. He's never…never tried to speak to me or anything—get a message to me… I don't know." The kid was faltering, though he kept that neutral expression perfectly in place, feigning interest in blowing smoky red rings again, which dissipated into the night. "They tried to kill me when I was about eleven—the Rebels. They broke into the Palace, but Vader was waiting for them. Palpatine killed the last member of the Jedi Council, named…Yoda, I think. Vader fought with Kenobi, but he got away. Palpatine was fuming for weeks."

"So, wait—if they broke into the palace and tried to kill you, Kenobi must know you exist?"

"Maybe they just knew I was Sith or something, I don't know."

"You never asked?"

Luke shook his head. "Palpatine goes crazy…I mean, really crazy."

"Like tonight?"

"Tonight?" The kid glanced across, uncertain, then realized and shook his head. "No, I mean _really_ crazy. Tonight was nothing."

Han narrowed his eyes, but held quiet, not looking to rock the boat; the kid clearly had enough unanswered questions without his adding to them. Anyway, after his little talk with the Emperor, it was the future not the past that was preying on Han's mind now—the kid's, not his own. "So what are you gonna do with your life when you grow up?"

"I am grown up."

"Yeah?" Han stifled a smile. "So what are you gonna do with your life?"

"I'm doing it. I'm serving the Emperor."

"Is that what you wanna do…or is that what he's told you that you should do?" Han asked carefully. "Is that why you joined the Ubiqtorate?"

"I didn't join," Luke laughed quietly. "I just woke up one morning and the uniform had been delivered."

"But you put it on."

"I know you've only just met Palpatine, but let me tell you, if he sends you a uniform, believe me, you put it on."

"You know, you don't have to do everything he says."

Luke glanced back into the room behind him to make sure it was empty, clearly shocked. "Seriously? Are you sure you've met Palpatine?"

Han glanced down, torn. The Emperor's tacit threats were playing over with unsettling clarity in his head…but he had to know whether this was what the kid actually wanted. Had to say it. "He doesn't own you, Luke. You could walk out of here tomorrow if you didn't like the way things were going, you know that, right?"

The kid looked quickly up at Han, then away again, voice neutral and far too worldly. "You should be careful who you say things like that to...me, for a start."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. You can't say it. Not here—not ever."

The spice stick flared one last time before the kid stubbed it out on the floor beside him. "So, will you leave?" Luke asked again, his tone impassive, betraying neither hope nor judgment as he concentrated instead on using the burnt ashes to draw smudged lines into the mottled blue surface of the stone. Drawn in a few fast strokes, it was a single eye, opened wide as if in shock, the pupil rubbed in a dark circle before the ashes ran out.

"Leave?" Han pursed his lips… "Nah, think I'll stick around for a while, see what's what. You comin' in—it's freezing out here."

He stood and offered the kid his hand. Luke stared for a few seconds, but stood on his own, hands clutched about his midriff. "Still sore," he said, by way of an avoidance.

He didn't touch people much, Han had noticed; and even Indo never touched him.

Han nodded, feeling that despite everything, he'd gotten something good out of the day's sorry events. He felt like he finally knew what was going on around here…and knowing, he felt that first twitch right in the center of his chest, that tiny, tenacious impulse to make a difference.

Because he understood this. This wasn't so very different to Han's own childhood, growing up with the low-life Shrike, whose word was law, and Sith help you if you ever crossed him. Funny, in that situation, growing up in that pressure keg…what had Palpatine said? It became normal, because you didn't know any different.

He'd clawed his way out from under that only because somebody else had helped him. Dewlanna, the old Wookiee who'd been cook and general den-mother for the ragtag gaggle of lost kids that Shrike had held in thrall to finance his own little crime empire, had stepped in. And with everything to lose and nothing to gain, she'd shown Han what was possible—that there was a life beside the one he knew. And when Han had made to run, it had been Dewlanna who had bought him that opportunity—and paid with her life. He'd carried that remorse around a long time now. Aside from her, Han had never in his whole life seen a single good thing he could pull from his whole sorry childhood—until now.

Because he _understood_ this. He understood what it was like to be where the kid was now. That it wasn't that you couldn't work out how to get out, it was more that you didn't understand why you should—didn't know what was wrong in the first place. He'd always told himself that he'd make it up to Dewlanna one day, repay that debt, though he'd never once known how.

Now—right now—it seemed as clear as the night sky.

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my own website, where there's a little extra at the end of each chapter - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page, or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	6. Chapter 6

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**CHAPTER SIX**

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Han arrived in the apartment the next morning to the news that the kid was gone—legitimately this time. Ashtor, on night duty, had left word that Luke had been summoned to Palpatine's presence in the early hours of the morning, not returning.

"Where's the kid now?"

"He's not back yet," Gorn shrugged, still reading the memo left on the system last night by the always-efficient Indo.

"From where?"

"Uuh…doesn't say, other than that they're on the SD _Immortal_—we use the _Immortal_ a lot…and the _Vendetta_—it just says they're off-planet on official business, which apparently we're too far down the pecking order to know—though Indo may have not mentioned it anywhere because he knew that Ashtor would pick this up." Gorn straightened. "Hey, if we're lucky, he'll still be away for B-Day."

Han scowled at the only half-faked dread in Gorn's voice.

"What the hell's B-Day?"

"Birthday," Gorn said simply, "Luke's birthday."

Han pulled a face, instantly horrified. "What, do they have a party or somethin'?"

Even knowing him as little as he did, Han really couldn't imagine it of the kid. On the other hand, he was perfectly willing to believe that the galaxy could be so cruel as to inflict a dozen pre-pubescent teens on him.

Gorn shook his head, hands out. "Hell no, nothing like that! Nothing at all. We absolutely do not do anything for his birthday—except maybe brace."

"Brace?"

"He doesn't like 'em. Gets a bit stir-crazy on the week leading up…as you've seen. Whatever you do, don't mention it to him. Not a word. Uh-oh…" Gorn was staring at his own datapad, which was still downloading the morning's messages.

"What now?"

"Well, I have a friend in the main military hub…"

"Another one?"

Gorn ignored that. "And he's messaged me that his Commander, Kaplan—you know him? He's got three meetings confirmed at the end of this week with Lord Vader—here in the palace."

Vader—the kid had mentioned Vader's reaction to his existence the previous night: '_Vader and my father…they had a history, I think, because…Vader went wild, incensed, absolutely outraged.'_

"That's bad, right?"

"Bad, tipping towards catastrophic, if Vader's around when it's Luke's birthday."

"What is it, between them?"

"I don't know."

"C'mon, you know everything."

Gorn shook his head. "I don't know that. I know damn well that something _is_ there."

"You must know more than that—you're Therne Gorn!" Han ribbed. "You know everything that's going on in this place!" It was near-inconceivable to him that he actually knew a piece of information in this puzzle that Gorn didn't—about Luke's real father, Kenobi.

Gorn shrugged. "I really don't know. I do know that they're constantly at loggerheads, and I'm pretty damn sure that Luke is jealous of Vader for the same reason that Vader's jealous of Luke. To Luke, Vader's allowed all this freedom and autonomy by Palpatine, whilst he's forever under close scrutiny, Palpatine always watching for any misstep or error. Luke sees Vader allowed all this independence, whilst he's continually being held back and chastised."

Han nodded, realizing that it was that which would make Luke take the commission as Emperor's Hand too: the opportunity to be away from here.

"On the other hand," Gorn continued, "Vader sees this kid who arrived from nowhere, and now commands _all_ of the Emperor's attention, whilst Vader's old news, practically ignored by comparison—save for when he's summoned back to Palpatine's presence to fulfil some order. The Emperor takes a daily interest in what Luke does, he always keeps Luke close. He gives him commissions, he gives him personally assigned tasks…Vader's jealous! I'm telling you, Palpatine couldn't have done a better job of setting them against each other if he'd actually been trying."

"Maybe he is. He doesn't seem to go out of his way to make the kid's life any easier."

"Oh, believe me, they don't need any outside encouragement. Earlier this year, they were both in an official conference with the Emperor and five Moffs, and the argument actually got to the point where they both stood up so fast they knocked their chairs over behind them. Vader pulled his saber…and Luke pulled his! Luke isn't even supposed to wear a saber without permission! He'd taken it in there looking for a fight."

"Saber?"

"Lightsaber." Gorn rolled his eyes as if stating the obvious. "You know Sith carry lightsabers, right? Like Jedi."

"Yeah, I know they carry lightsabers," Han said. He was military; he'd seen the same list of prohibited weapons that any soldier had. Heard the same jokes about not trying to take 'em off anyone over the age of forty and wearing a homespun cloak. "I didn't know the kid had one."

"C'mon, he practices almost every day, you must've seen him setting off out of here in his gear with Indo? When he was practicing with Vader we used to have a sweep going in the palace about…never mind. The point is, Luke has one but he's not allowed to carry it. Indo's kept it locked up since then—not that that'd slow Luke down that much."

"Maybe he'd taken it there because he knew that Vader was doing the same."

"You don't take a concealed weapon into the Emperor's presence—ever!"

"What happened?"

"I heard it was an open face-off from either side of the table until the Emperor ordered them to stand down. Luke got sent back here. Palpatine was livid—I mean absolutely incensed. I don't know what happened to Vader, but Luke spent four nights in the medi-center and another week back here in the apartment—which didn't matter that much because he was confined to quarters anyway." Gorn shook his head, mind more on their present problem. "Indo'll go into overdrive if Vader's in the palace."

"You know, I can't figure that guy out."

"Who, Indo? Don't even try. Could be worse—someone once told me Saté Pestage had tried pretty damn hard to get control of Luke when he first arrived."

"Pestage—why?"

"Come on, you've seen how much prestige it gave Indo—how much access to the Emperor. Unlike most others, Pestage was presumably close enough to the Emperor already to know what would happen when Luke arrived."

"Seriously, would it have been that different?" Han asked doubtfully.

"Hell yes! Indo at least knew how to deal with kids. I mean, with a son of his own at least he had some idea of…of how messed up Luke actually was."

"You said he lost his son?"

"Dubrail, yeah."

Han hesitated… "How old was he?"

"Dubrail? Fourteen." Gorn quietened, suddenly serious. "Indo wanted everything for him—but he expected everything from him too, from what I heard. Had this intensive learning thing set up…I'm guessing it was pretty much the same hours that Luke does now. I dunno," Gorn shrugged briefly, "I think that's a lot for a kid. Worked though—Dubrail Indo got admitted to the most elite Corps Academy going."

"This…Aubrey…"

"J. Aubrey Academy. _The_ place to go, if you know what I mean? Top of the leagues eleven years running. Most sought after, most advantageous…but takes just a hundred new students a year. Wealth and position makes no difference to getting in; they're givens. You basically register your kid when they're born and hope to hell that you can push them enough that they've got even a chance of a place there. Dubrail was in the top ten percent on entry. And those who get in, they push them—I mean really push them. The drop-out level after year one is almost fifty percent. Indo was always aiming to get Dubrail in—I'm talking about aiming the kid's whole life toward it—so when he got accepted, it was smiles all round, right? Except that one night in the last semester of his second year, Dubrail Indo stepped off the top of the power-chute tower, without a 'chute. There was a huge inquest, of course, which pointed at failure to ascertain welfare under stress, that kind of thing, but basically, it was pressure. They didn't say that, they called it a rational stability issue and cited 'death by misadventure' on his death certificate, but that's what it was."

"He committed suicide—a kid?"

"I hear Indo took it really, really hard. He wouldn't take time from his duties in Court, but…I think it was just because he didn't know what else to do. Everything he'd done had revolved around Dubrail—around getting him ready for this high-flying career. That was about six years ago. Palpatine appointed Indo as Luke's tutor and Adjutant almost four years ago, and he took the role and his responsibilities very seriously."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Why him?"

"Honestly? Nobody knows. It's not like Palpatine knew him really well or anything. I mean, Indo was already in Court trying to carve out a niche for his own kid, but from what I hear, he didn't have any great connections. A few people say they remember Indo as bringing Luke to Court in the first place, looking for Palpatine's sponsorship, but you know Indo, he's pretty damn tight-lipped. I do know that he was already known for the tutoring system he'd used on his own son, this intensive syllabus system—kind of a hothouse education, you know? I heard Luke was pretty wayward, back then."

"Not like now, then?" Han drawled sarcastically.

"No, I mean _really_ wayward. Wouldn't even speak, wouldn't…"

"Wouldn't what?"

"Just…like a wild thing—that's what I heard. I mean, he's gotten better even since I've been here. I can see a hell of a difference from two years ago. Indo's had this learning programme and all these specialist tutors and everything, early morning to late night, seven days a week. From what I can tell, I think he's basically educated Luke from scratch in the last four years. And it's not like he's an easy kid to work with. Really, the only one who has any kind of control over him is Palpatine. Indo gets him to do stuff, but it's more kinda wearing him down until he gets bored of arguing, rather than actually dictating anything. Plus they have a whole history together, and there's not many constants in Luke's life. "

"Maybe that's what he needs—someone he can count on."

Gorn shook his head, reading between the lines. "Don't do it, Solo. Let me tell you something: Luke doesn't like people getting too close to him—and if by some miracle they do, Palpatine removes them anyway. That's what I told you: you _don't get involved_. Not here. Luke likes it that way, Indo likes it that way, and Palpatine likes it that way."

There was no hint of a threat, but there was a clear warning in Gorn's pointedly spoken words. Han wondered briefly whether Gorn had seen him sitting on the balcony last night, speaking with the kid. Would he tell Indo if he had?

"Why would Indo care?"

" 'Cos he's spent years making sure he's the only person Luke ever turns to beside Palpatine."

"Well then, why does Palpatine allow it, if he doesn't like anyone near the kid?"

"Come on, you've seen how Indo is with Luke. He's not a threat to Palpatine because he backs up everything the Emperor says or does. He always has. Indo…" Gorn glanced to the door, voice dropping even further. "Indo serves his own ends."

"Then why does Luke let him close? He'd know that about Indo—you know what the kid can do."

"Look around you. You've seen how Luke's grown up here, he doesn't know any better. How could he? To him, this is normal. Plus Indo holds him together, Luke knows that."

"He doesn't need it."

"No? Have you been in his rooms yet, Solo? Been in the end room, behind the glass doors?"

Han hesitated. "No…"

Gorn sighed, looking away down the direction of the darkened enfilade. "He's not nearly as together as he seems."

"What's in there?"

"Luke's in there. That room's never changed, not since the day he arrived here—except the walls, of course. The rest of his life…it's just a well-camouflaged repetition of that room—some kid desperately struggling to make sense of it all whilst everyone around him looks the other way or ignores it…or worse, just paints over it like it's not even there. Like it'll just go away." Gorn shook his head sadly. "But if it doesn't that's okay—'cos we've always got more paint."

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They were gone two more days before word came of their return, and even then, the sky was dark before Luke made it back to his apartment, walking quickly down the main corridor to his quarters, his step not slowing until it was lost behind the mirrored doors of his private rooms.

Han had intended to count to ten—give the kid some time. He'd made it all the way to four before he rose abruptly and walked quickly from the office, intending to follow. He hadn't seen Indo, who spoke out from the library as Han passed the door.

"Where do you think you're going, lieutenant?"

"I just…wanted to…" _Make sure he was okay?_ It sounded stupid now.

"Your intervention is not required, Lieutenant Solo. I think you've done enough for now, don't you?" Indo glanced to the plain-faced chrono on the wall, which timed out the hours the kid spent every day with his endless string of tutors. "Your duty shift is over anyway. Perhaps as you leave, you can manage to inform Lieutenant Commander Ashtor to order Luke some food, and place his tablets on the tray. Luke will be attending another tactical meeting shortly."

"But is he… I mean, he's okay, right? He was in trouble…Palpatine said he'd speak to him again. It sounded like…" _a threat._

"Palpatine is correctly referred to as The Emperor or His Imperial Majesty."

Han ignored that. "You know what happened with the spy over at Sinto Military Base, right? Luke…he actually…"

"I am aware of the incident, yes," Indo said curtly. "It has been dealt with, as have its reprimands and ramifications. You needn't concern yourself further."

Indo turned away, leaving Han acutely aware that his own actions at Sinto Base had been assessed too, and clearly deemed insufficient by Indo's exacting standards. He followed Indo into the library, where the viscount was arranging datapads and memory chips for tomorrow's lessons. "Hey, if someone had told me what exactly the kid could do, I might have been in some kinda position to…I don't know, whatever. But you've got everyone screwed up so tight around here that no one dare even talk about it."

"Luke's abilities are not common knowledge by the Emperor's command, Lieutenant Solo. If you feel that you're unable to comply with that order, then you can place your formal request for a transfer on my desk at any time. In the meantime, as I said, your duty shift is finished."

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Sitting in the echoing grandeur of the War Room, whose dark, mottled marble walls scaled to muted shadows high above, the wide expanse of its glass roof looking out into Coruscant's night sky, Luke listened distractedly

With Operation Strike Fear in full swing and the _Invincible_ riding high on its destruction of the Rebel base on Brigia, Admiral Holigén, as part of the same strike-force but without a victory under his belt yet, clearly felt he had something to prove as he conveyed to the Emperor his plan to corner a group of Rebels known to be in hiding out in Hutt Space. The holographic map of known space, big enough to spread its radiant glow across the entire hall, had been reduced to just that sector—to the planet Moralan and its near space—whose glow was reflected in the massive polished table, along with the nine tense officers who surrounded it.

Seated to one side of his Master and close enough to be out of his eyeline, Luke let out a brief, silent sigh as he turned away from the serious faces of the officers present, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes; they were idiots. Lackeys with no more brains than to say 'Yes, Excellency' on cue. The Rebels had four hyperspace routes spanning their position near Moralan, and the major junction of the Periphery within a day's reach, but Admiral Holigén thought he could waltz in there with a five-destroyer fleet and just one Interdictor and hold them. He was wrong; completely wrong. Even Luke could see that.

Palpatine turned slowly from his seat at the head of the table, voice a low growl. "You have something to say perhaps, child?"

The warning was there in his tone but Luke spoke out anyway, aiming his words towards Holigén, frustrated by the blatant flaw. "They won't form up like that—you think they're a military force and they're not. Discipline isn't drummed into them the same way, and they know they're not fighting from a position of even comparable firepower. They're a guerrilla force and they know it. You're reacting as if they'll try to hold their ground, when they have absolutely nothing to defend there and therefore no reason to hold formation when they're not looking for an all-out fight. The moment they see the Interdictor they'll scatter and break for cover, taking any path to get clear for hyperspace, and to make it impossible for us to track so many vectors. They'll just drop back into realspace whenever they're clear and re-program the jump for their intended destination. You're preparing for an orderly retreat and it won't happen that way at—"

"That is your opinion?" Palpatine asked quietly, his low whisper enough to silence Luke, who faltered, aware of just how cool his Master's tone had become.

"…Yes, Master."

"You believe yourself, a boy of fifteen, to have a greater comprehension than the finest military strategists my Empire can assemble?"

"No, Master, I…"

"And yet you contradict them. In their presence…in my presence." Palpatine had turned fully now, as the room grew quiet about him. "Do you seek to insult me? To embarrass me? You think perhaps your vision is more accurate than mine, more far-reaching?"

Luke glanced up at that. "No!"

Palpatine's hand flashed out like a striking cobra to close about Luke's neck, sharp nails to soft skin. He pulled Luke in, and as those ochre eyes searched his own, Luke knew the insult would come.

"You're not a Sith, not even nearly… You're just a blue-eyed boy. You're a child who plays with fire." He released Luke with a push, turning away dismissively. "When you look at me with a Sith's eyes, then you are entitled to an opinion. Until then, you're nothing. A minor distraction—an insignificant annoyance which takes up too much of my valuable time already."

Luke gritted his teeth, aware that his pale blue eyes were his ignominy. Because despite all that he'd done at his Master's command, his eyes had never changed, as a true Sith's did. His Master said it was because he was too young; because he had no real concept of his actions or their consequences. But he was almost sixteen—he was no longer a child, and a life lived in Palpatine's shadow had taught him in excruciating detail just how devastating the consequence of one man's disposition could be on those around him; how destructive it was to withstand another's fury. How gruelling and how punishing. He understood cause and effect; understood the shattering of hope and the splintering of security which came from the knowledge of one's own vulnerability. Was it a weakness, that he comprehended all that—that he shared silent empathy with his own and his Master's victims?

His Master felt nothing, Luke knew; nothing at all… But then he had never existed as Luke had, a life of intense pressure and oppression, always judged, always berated. Never sufficient, never enough for the Master who barely tolerated him, who at best ignored him and at worst… He couldn't imagine his Master as ever being weak, or lacking, or in any way vulnerable. Couldn't imagine him being anything less than the absolute center of the galaxy, the one indomitable will around which all other things orbited.

He watched without blinking as his Master turned away, feeling, as always, that complex twist of relief and abandonment, in knowing he was already forgotten. Palpatine settled into the heavy chair again, beckoning his advisors on, the glow of the holo-image painting their features pale and graven.

Luke remained still for long moments before his Master looked to him again, face twisting in disgust. "Why are you still here? Get out."

Luke stood and bowed once, accustomed to the terseness of the dismissal, but as he stepped away, he was called again.

"Wait. Come back and stand here. Try to learn something."

There was that same growl of bitter disappointment that he always heard in his Master's voice, and Luke was deathly tired. But he turned about immediately and stood in precisely the spot his Master had indicated, by the side of that heavy carved chair. Trying to pay attention, knowing already the ships and the Moffs and the Admirals in play. Knowing that the blockade his Master's strategists planned had flaws and shortcomings which the Rebellion would surely exploit, albeit unknowingly. But he held his tongue. If his Master wanted his opinion he would ask for it, and since he didn't, there would be a reason for these oversights, if only to wheedle out the weaker elements of his counsel.

Luke glanced once around the table at the nine advisors present; it would be Holigén whose head would roll, he guessed, already mentally striking the man from his internal register of palace dignitaries. His Master glanced his way, and Luke quickly brought his eyes back to the holo, concentrating should he be questioned later.

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Palpatine dismissed his Moffs and his generals as the meeting drew to a close, watching them leave in a cloud of bowing deference. The boy tried to stay with the group, but he knew what was coming… Still, Palpatine let him get to the very threshold of the door before he spoke.

"Antilles."

The boy stiffened slightly, then turned about to walk back into the cavernous room, silently bracing for whatever would befall him this time. What a gratifying thing it was, to hold someone so completely that they would willingly walk towards their fate.

Visually, the boy was nothing: a little shadow, slight and slim, not yet fully grown. He kept his eyes down, the bruises which had blackened them three days ago beginning to fade now, as he tried so hard to remain respectful and placatory, penitent without even knowing why. But in the Force…in the Force—

Most trained Force-sensitives could be easily identified within the Force by the pulsing corona of their abilities and their connection, which remained ever-present within the perceptions of any astute Force-user. The boy was different. He was imbued with it, he vibrated with it in every cell of his being, just as his father once had. Incredible connection and power.

And Palpatine was drawn to and loathed the boy because of it.

He had dedicated his life to bringing this power into existence: it was _his_. He had created it, he _owned_ it. But he should have realized, should have understood the bitter pill that he had to swallow in its creation. Because to control the power he'd created was not to _experience_ it. Instead he could only watch as another embodied the connection and the capability which remained forever close enough to touch…but not to experience himself.

Sensing his Master's resentment without understanding it, the boy moved uneasily. Palpatine turned on him, lip lifting into a sneer. "You broadcast your presence like a beacon—have you no control?"

"You…you told me never to suppress m…"

"It's intolerable. Offensive. You're Sith—a Sith is capable of hiding their presence completely. From now on, you will keep it shrouded, at all times."

Beneath even Palpatine's perceptive senses, the boy's Force-presence shrank to nothing in a heartbeat, ever-compliant. Perfect control…today. Tomorrow it could be wildly different, that same power muted or near-inaccessible. No reason that Palpatine could see, no pattern. Just random fluctuations, which grew worse with every year.

To Palpatine, discovery of this new source of _his_ power had been a serendipitous accident, and one that he had grasped with both hands. This line was his, created for his own advantage and exploitation. It was the power itself that Palpatine saw—that it was linked to another being, a child, no less, was neither here nor there; it was still his, to do with as he willed. So he'd taken the child. Tyrannized and tormented it, twisted it and bled it dry, before it was even full grown, binding the child to him, desperate to control it, impatient to use it.

What possible choice did the boy have, confined and bereft of anyone who would even try to help him, anyone who even cared to see. Vulnerable and bewildered, he'd crouched before the endless storm and let its fury sheet over him, unable to do anything more, invisible and ignored by all, abandoned to his persecutor's every whim. He'd suffered and starved and endured, as Palpatine had dragged him through Darkness. Had goaded the child into desperate, mindless fury and laughed at his helplessness. Had showed him hope only to dash it, had given him moments of freedom only for the pleasure of ripping them from him one more time. What could the boy do, but learn to exist in this house of daggers and Darkness. And days and months and years had passed, in a childhood outside of reality or mercy, until the boy flinched away from any outside relief or reprieve offered, knowing from hard experience that it wouldn't last, that it was the cruellest of all tricks, the harshest of lessons.

He still bore the scars of that final cut with his past, Palpatine knew that…but it had been the right choice, to enforce it upon him in that moment. Now, like his father, the boy had at his core the still-weeping wound that had torn him from any other and bound him to Palpatine in both his hatred and his shame. In his absolute knowledge that his Master would do anything to maintain that hold. No one was allowed close—ever. Palpatine had made that very clear.

A hard lesson for a child to learn. Palpatine could have lost the boy forever to that moment—to that act. That was always the gamble; that in taking a mind—adult or child—to that moment, in breaking a soul and a will with the riptide of emotions that one must create, one may misstep. Miscalculate. Misjudge. The finest of lines, the greatest of gambles, the most perfect of moments—as it had been with his father.

_His father_… The barest shade of a smile passed Palpatine's lips, in appreciation of that fact—and what he was about to say. "Lord Vader will be returning to the palace tomorrow. He has already made known his…disappointment at your recent actions."

The boy flinched—actually flinched at the news of Vader's impending return, pale eyes seeming bright against fading bruises. Then instantly he was angry at his own lapse, mouth pressing to a thin line. Palpatine felt his lips tug to a thin smile, aware of just how much the boy looked like his father—like his real father: like Anakin. And yet Palpatine had invested so many years of judicious persuasion that the boy was Obi-Wan Kenobi's, that Vader still saw only his old mentor in the boy. And the boy's build, made slight probably by a combination of his mother's genes and his formative years beneath Palpatine's hand, served to underline the lie, in Vader's eyes.

And it had been such a simple lie—to identify the already-hidden boy as Kenobi's and not Anakin's. Vader had spent seven years mourning the loss of his wife and unborn child because of Kenobi. It had been so easy to feed that resentment, to take the lies already woven to hide the boy's past and turn them to his own ends, twist them for his own amusement. A game played on so many levels.

Because the truth—the truth that he would never once utter—was that Anakin had been the embodiment of all that Palpatine had desired for himself: power and prodigy, all so close, yet never his. And every year as Palpatine had watched Anakin grow, that power had increased beyond all expectations, so that even as he'd congratulated himself for recognizing such promise, Palpatine had felt those first stirrings of resentment. Fury that he could influence yet never himself experience such an instinctive, intuitive connection. That he was relegated to base manipulations in order to control it. To watch as it was wielded and ultimately wasted by Anakin, thrown away in blind rage.

And all, as it turned out, over a woman. The very thing which had given Palpatine the means to control Anakin had been that which had reduced Anakin's power to the level of any other Jedi. He should have been pleased; the power he'd so coveted and resented had been taken from Anakin -that and so much more.

But it hadn't been enough. He'd wanted more. A deeper hurt, a greater revenge for the one whose abilities had so eclipsed his own.

And then the boy, Anakin's son, had come into Palpatine's hands…and oh, that was true retribution. To steal from him his only son, to turn the two against each other so completely. It gave Palpatine a private, glowing satisfaction to know all that he'd done. To own so much that should, by rights, have been Anakin's. To bully and brutalize the boy, and to encourage his unknowing father to do the same. What a wonderful, warming revenge. Every time he visited it on the boy—every time he saw Vader do the same—it brought a stifled smile of enjoyment.

"Lord Vader will arrive tomorrow…" Palpatine hesitated as he studied the boy closely, letting his private smile widen into a slight laugh, as if in casual realization. "It will be nine years, almost to the day, since you arrived here yourself."

The boy glanced down, a haunted frown taking his features.

"How mundane your life was then. How pitifully small and safe." Palpatine stepped forward and reached out to rest his hand lightly to a cheek still suffuse with the glow of youth, and the boy tensed, but didn't recoil. "We were meant to find each other, you and I," he whispered into those troubled eyes. "You were meant to be here. To serve. Everything else is irrelevant… Remember that."

Leaning forward, he placed a tender kiss against the fading bruise of the eye he had blackened in a rage just three days earlier. Deeply unsure, the boy blinked at the last moment, his lashes brushing Palpatine's lips as they held there just a second before he stepped back, releasing the bewildered child.

Turning away, Palpatine flicked one hand in brusque dismissal as he returned to the empty table to study the glowing holo. Ignored, the boy remained still for a long time…

Eventually he stirred, bowing once to his Master before he walked quickly from the huge hall, leaving Palpatine to smile into the encroaching shadows.

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Han slapped disgustedly at the comlink in the staff office, closing the channel.

"Well, the meeting finished two hours ago, and the aide on duty says that Luke stayed a few minutes afterward, then left."

He wasn't here, of course. Han wasn't even surprised; he'd long since learned that Luke's leaving one place had little connection to his arriving at another on time—or at all, if the mood was on him. When he'd first arrived, Han had been—reasonably, he'd thought—confused as to why exactly Indo felt the need to have someone accompany the kid pretty much everywhere he went. Now—_now_ Han found himself wondering why exactly no one had been assigned to accompany Luke to the tactical meeting. Yes, it had been strictly authorized personnel, but hell, he would have waited outside.

As it was, they'd tried everywhere now and drawn a blank. Most night it wouldn't have been a problem, but apparently the fact that it was the eve of Luke's birthday made everyone extra-antsy.

Indo was staring at a palace layout, asking Gorn the same questions he'd asked three times already. "He's not on the main ziggurat roof?"

Gorn shook his head. "No, Sir."

"The landing platforms?"

"No, Sir."

"The roof of the State Legislature?"

"No, Sir."

Gorn was, Han had to admit, pretty patient with the guy. He also sounded like a droid whose voice-system was stuck.

"Museum?"

"No, Sir."

"No register of him passing through any outer ward gates?"

"No, Sir."

"The practice halls?"

"No, Sir."

At a mile square, the Imperial palace was a big place if you wanted to lose yourself—especially if, like the kid, you had years of experience in doing just that. Though disappearing wasn't as easy as Han had first imagined; every main hallway in every public space was monitored, he'd learned.

Beside him, Indo hesitated in pensive consideration, then straightened to comm security. An unknown voice came over the comlink. "Main Ops."

"This is Viscount Indo…I need you to do a security check on an apartment door for me."

"Sir?"

"The apartment reference is S1074. Check for an entry."

"That's in the VIP apartments of the South Quadrant… Sir, I have that listed as a prohibited area."

"Has there been an entry?"

There was a long pause, in which Han wondered just exactly what was going on here…

"Sir, I have a single incursion listed, over an hour ago. There's nothing on the security monitors for that floor though… I'll log for Security to go over there and…"

"No need, trooper, I have it in hand. I'll go right now."

The security officer paused, uncertain…then caved to Indo's rank. "Acknowledged, sir. I'm going to have to send someone over to check in an hour or two, though."

"Two hours is fine. Thank you."

Indo stepped back from the console…and Han moved quickly to the door. "That's all right, I'll go."

Indo lifted one eyebrow. "You have no idea what…"

"I'll go," Han repeated firmly.

Indo stared for a few seconds through narrowed eyes, then nodded slowly. "Fine."

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Han paused uncertainly at the door of apartment S1074, one of many senior guest apartments generally reserved for visiting dignitaries. Palming the door entry as he wondered why exactly this one was out of bounds, Han stepped inside.

The long hallway was dark and cold, its still silence eerie. Tall panels of figured ebony lined the walls, the floor a dark, marbled stone, though its true color was difficult to tell beneath the heavy pall of dust which lay everywhere. Just how long had it been prohibited?

Han glanced down the unlit corridor, which fell to thick and distant shadows, a vague suggestion of the substantial scale of the empty apartment indicated by regimented rows of double-height doors. In the dust before him there was a narrow track of footprints; a path walked often enough to keep it at bay…but only ever to one room. Han started forward, aware of muting his footfalls as he walked, uneasy somehow at the thought of shouting Luke's name. The track in the dust stopped only at the third door, which was already open, though there was no light within. Han paused without entering. The forlorn, musty darkness and the scale of the barely lit room made it nothing more than a black void. The kid was in there somewhere though—Han could smell the Ruby spice from here.

Straightening, he took a silent step into the gloom—and jumped at the quiet voice which came from the floor to one side of the heavy door-frame.

"Don't go any further."

Twisting to his side, Han looked down. Luke was sitting just inside the door as if reluctant to go into the room, his legs pulled up close and his arms wrapped about them. Perfectly still, he was barely a presence in the shadows, eyes to the center of the room, completely lost in his own thoughts. The bright flare of a spice stick lit a brief glow about him, enough for Han to see others spent and stubbed out on the floor near his boot.

"Luke?" Han paused, voice little more than a whisper. "You okay?"

The kid just tightened his arms about himself, insular and distant.

Han glanced into the shadows of the darkened room, looking about. In the shuttered light which reached it from the main entrance, it seemed just like any other guest apartment, albeit with that distant sense of long-abandonment, underlined by the film of dust which had settled deeply about its dull surfaces. The furniture was dark and heavy, the high walls panelled in that same figured ebony as the hall, which absorbed what little light there was. Stark and somber, its stillness seemed to hold the room in stasis, removed from time. To the center, a long, low oval table in black marble stood before a stark angular chaise, two more matching chairs opposite, the dust and the shadows rendering their fabric dull black.

Han looked back to the kid, who stared ahead, lost in thought. He followed his gaze back to that heavy black chaise, struggling to make some connection, some reason as to why the kid would be here, huddled in the shadows of the musty room. "What is this place?"

"This is where it happened," Luke said numbly, voice distant. "This is where it ended."

"What?"

"This is the last place—the last place that I was with them. With…" He trailed to nothing, having no words to continue.

"With who?"

"This is the room I was in when Palpatine came to claim me," Luke whispered at last.

Han glanced about, feeling a sudden chill run up his spine. "How old were you?"

The spice stick flared brightly in the gloom, lighting Luke's still face, the smell of the scarlet smoke bitter and heady from this close.

"Seven," Luke said at last, voice completely without emotion. "It was one week after my seventh birthday, and I was sitting right there."

Seven…so why did Gorn think that Luke had arrived here aged eleven? Han moved to crouch beside the kid as the spice stick flared again, its curl of ruby smoke the only color in the somber room. "What happened?"

Luke didn't speak for a long time, and when he did, it was no answer at all. In fact it raised a hundred questions.

"My mother…she lost a pearl hairpin here. Father had bought them for her earlier that year, and she was so upset when she lost one. I'd never seen her cry before…she cried so much." He let out the barest bitter laugh within a breath. "I was too young to realize what else she was crying about. I spent hour on hour in this apartment that day, trying to find that damn pearl hairpin, because I wanted to make her happy again. I couldn't understand why I couldn't find it…I could always find anything, even then."

"…Your mother?"

"I never did find it. For years afterwards, every time I came here, I always used to look…I always looked." Luke's voice was a hoarse whisper, eyes glassy in the near darkness. "I never found it."

Han stared for long seconds, pulled down into the kid's misery…then he shook his head as he dragged himself free, standing. "Well, c'mon, let's find it now."

The kid didn't move, and Han paused. "Luke?"

"You don't get it, do you? I didn't either. For the longest time, I kept coming back here to look, hoping…hoping to find something that was hers." He shook his head slowly. "She never lost a pearl hairpin. I spent that whole last day that she was here, looking for a hairpin that she'd never lost… But what else could she tell a seven year old boy to explain why she'd cried every day since we'd arrived here?"

Han felt a surge of emotions rise up to lock his throat, so that his words were a broken whisper. "What happened…that last day?"

The kid shook his head mutely, staring into a room dark as the crypt, and Han's burning desire to know was replaced by a protective surge which made everything else, in this moment, unimportant. "Luke, whatever happened, it wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault."

"It was all my fault," the kid said emotionlessly. "This was all because of me, Palpatine never hid that. I know the truth, I'm not stupid. I know that I'm just another opportunity to him, otherwise he would have killed me in the purges."

"…What does he want?"

"I don't know a lot about Vader's past, but I think he was already under the Jedi's protection when Palpatine found him. He prized Vader away from them, but he had to do it quietly, had to hide what he was doing, had to give Vader so much autonomy, or risk losing him entirely. So Vader wasn't enough, I suppose—not for Palpatine. He wanted more…and he found it."

"He found you."

Luke stared into those pitch shadows, voice distant. "This time, Palpatine could ensure that he owned the child completely, with no one to stop him, no one to intercede. Now he had his control. He had his apprentice…and I had a Master. He wouldn't let anyone else near me. Always him. Only him. And I didn't care, because it was all I knew. Nothing else existed—no matter what he did, nothing else existed… I can remember that quite clearly."

Again Luke paused to take a series of short breaths, then he was very still for a long time, not breathing at all.

"He said tonight that we were meant to find each other. That I was meant to be here. He told me to remember that."

Han shook his head, angry at the open manipulations of a man who had neither conscience nor compassion. "Listen to me, he's wrong. He's saying this stuff to control you."

Luke only shook his head, voice barely a whisper. "You don't understand."

"Oh, I understand that yellow-eyed son-of-a-Sith perfectly," Han growled.

"And what about me—do you understand me? What I did?" The kid's voice slowly took on an edge. "A few short months here, and you've got everything pinned down, right?"

Han straightened, taking a step back in the gloom. "I think I'm gettin' it, yeah."

"People spend their whole lives here, whispering secrets, and they don't know the truth. But you—two months, and you've got it down." The kid's voice was rising in anger now, his face still hidden in the shadows. "Only you don't. Because you don't know the truth. Nobody does, except me and him. You don't know anything about me—about this…all of this."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help."

"How exactly? A pat on the back and a few empty words; 'Chin up, kid, hang in there'. You have _no idea_ what happened. What do you even care…who _asked_ you to care? In fact, who asked you to come up here at all?"

Han stared, uncertain why the kid was overreacting so wildly. Frustrated that he couldn't see Luke's face to read his reaction, he stepped to the side, hand reaching out to the long console table there to feel at the base of a heavy lamp for the on-sensor—and the kid lunged up.

"Don't touch it! Don't touch anything here!"

"What the hell?" Eyes on the kid as he scrabbled upright, Han's hand hit something in the darkness, small and light. He twisted about to grab at it, but he was a half-step too far away, the shuttered light too dim…

The coral box shattered as it hit the hard stone floor, tiny shards scattering into the shadows. Han turned instantly, an apology on his lips…

"Out!" Luke launched forward, palms landing flat to Han's chest to shove him hard, pushing him forcibly back. "Get out!"

The kid's hands were still out before him, palms flat…

The weight which landed against Han's body a second later wasn't a blow, but it was a solid wall of immense pressure, powering him backwards as his mind reeled to catch up with a phenomenon that it couldn't fathom. Luke stepped forward to deliver another flat-handed push, more anger than any real force, but it was backed up by that unrelenting invisible impetus. Trying vainly to stand his ground, Han stumbled back into the hallway, clouds of dust rising at the movement.

"This place isn't for you!" Luke kept on pushing, forcing Han down the hallway in a broken stagger.

Han lurched unstoppably back through the main doorway and out into the bright light beyond as Luke broke the contact, both physical and mental. As the kid backed into the darkness Han caught himself to step forward—and the massive apartment door slid shut, separating them.

"Luke? Luke!" He hammered on the door, palming the release, but it remained firmly shut. Finally, glancing to the surveillance lens at the far end of the empty corridor, Han punched the door in frustration before turning on his heel to stalk away, shaking his head and muttering a choice Corellian curse.

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Indo walked the long corridors to the prohibited apartment, trusting that Luke would have had time to calm by now. Solo had returned frustrated and angry, probably knowing that Indo had sent him there unprepared on purpose, Indo mused.

It was a testament to long familiarity that Indo was confident of knowing just exactly the right tact and tone to take here—unlike Solo. In fact, Indo had relied on that, seeing his opportunity when the Corellian had offered. Solo had been getting undesirably close to Luke over the last few weeks, and it had been time to tarnish the pilot's reputation somewhat—as well as underline Indo's own safe familiarity.

There was little that meant anything to the boy, but the apartment which had been inhabited by Bail and Breha Organa held an almost shrine-like significance to him. Palpatine had left it untouched, probably knowing that it would fester like a wound in the boy's already-damaged psyche. But there was more even than that, Indo suspected—something which ate at the boy, something which burned—and to this day, Indo had no idea what.

He wondered, sometimes, why Luke chose to come back here again and again for contact with a past which seemed only ever to scald. But then, although it marked the end of his previous life, it also held the frail memories of the very last place where he had felt some kind of contentment, Indo supposed—of safety. So it was always to here that Luke would retreat when at his most troubled. To send Solo bumbling into this place without knowing its relevance would, Indo had known, likely drive a wedge between them. There were rules here, unspoken but imperative, and as much as Solo seemed intent on creeping into Luke's life, his coming here would only have highlighted his status as an outsider.

Indo unlocked the door and stepped into the still apartment without subtlety, using the noise to announce his presence, but taking his time, giving Luke the space he would need to prepare for the intrusion. Squinting in the darkness, he walked the narrow path through the dust to the third door, knowing exactly where the boy would be—but paused in the doorway of the room, knowing he should step no further. Luke's voice came from the floor beside him.

"Don't you ever sleep, Indo?"

His voice was calm, tinged with the private melancholy which this place always evoked. Indo glanced to him just once, before looking out across the broken shadows.

"I sleep whenever you do," he answered smoothly. "I am hoping to do so very soon."

"That was subtle."

"My humor becomes a tad blunt after midnight."

"Then go to bed," Luke chastised affectionately.

Indo held his ground expectantly.

"Fine." Luke rose to his feet, glancing about one last time as he made to leave. "I swear you think I'm still eleven years old. You'd organize my whole life for me if you could."

"I thought I already did." Knowing how much these dusty rooms meant, Indo crouched to pick up the spent stubs of the scarlet papered spice sticks.

"I just let you think that…I learned to do that when I was twelve." Luke too crouched down, using his bare hand to brush the ash away.

Indo paused at the doors to the deserted apartment, taking care to check that the lock had engaged. Luke didn't comment on the fact of course, though Indo knew he would have registered it.

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They entered Luke's apartment together, Indo pausing before a tray which had been left in the Red Room at his order. "Your tablets." Luke pursed his lips, but Indo held his ground. "Please?"

Sighing, Luke lined the tablets up on the hard-edged, etched-metal table before taking them quickly, one after the other. Tonight, Indo didn't ask to check.

Luke hesitated as he put the glass down, eyes remaining on it. "I think I shouted at Solo."

"I'm sure he can take it," Indo replied simply.

"He broke the coral box."

"The one to the right of the door—on the console?"

"Yes."

"I'll go back tonight—gather the pieces," Indo promised, attributing the boy's muted disposition to this.

"I'll come—I should come."

"No, it's after midnight. You should sleep," Indo chastised gently. "I'll put them in the arcwood bowl, beneath the console. Perhaps they can be reassembled by a jeweller."

"No, leave them in the bowl."

Indo nodded, knowing that the boy would rather them stay in the room, even like this. "Of course. Now, go to bed."

Still the boy didn't move. "Vader's coming."

"When?" The word was clipped by Indo's constricting throat.

"Tomorrow…today, in fact."

"For how long?"

"I don't know…and no, I couldn't."

Indo frowned. "What?"

"Avoid him. Lay low or leave for a few days. You know Palpatine wouldn't allow that."

This was the true reason for Luke's melancholy, Indo realized—the reason he had retreated to the apartment tonight. "He won't stay long. The Death Star is operational in just weeks now. He's probably been summoned to answer for why exactly the 501st took so long to quell the riots onboard."

Luke nodded as he glanced down. "Gorn heard that it's looking likely that some information regarding the Death Star was copied, but because of damage, they don't even know what exactly."

"Well then, take heart in the fact that this will be an uncomfortable visit for Lord Vader."

"He'll find some way to put it back on me," Luke said tiredly. "Probably he'll say that if the spy at Sinto Barracks had been brought in alive, they could have already extracted some reliable information."

"…Is he right?"

"No, but that won't stop him. It never has before."

"Luke, you will always have enemies. That's a simple fact of life."

Luke's chin raised, defiant. "I'm not afraid of him."

"I know that…and believe me, so does he."

Mollified, Luke nodded, turning to leave.

"Luke…" Indo hesitated, uneasy. "You'd do well to have a clear head in the morning."

The boy stared for a few seconds, understanding Indo's meaning. But he had nothing left to be fractious, so eventually he half-nodded in acquiescence. "I'm done for tonight."

Indo nodded as the mercury-mirrored doors to Luke's darkened rooms opened. "Sleep well," he said absently, though the doors were already closing.

"Go to bed!" came the shout from the room beyond, making Indo smile.

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Feeling that equilibrium had been at least partway restored, Indo walked comfortably through the darkened rooms, starting the long walk back to the prohibited apartment. Lord Vader's arrival was untimely to say the least, and would have to be carefully managed in order to avoid another catastrophe on a par with Vader's last visit. It occurred only now to Indo to wonder whether the Emperor had specifically summoned Vader…but it made no difference in the long run. Vader and Luke seldom needed any excuse to become incendiary.

Perhaps in retrospect, now had been a bad timing to instigate Solo's disgrace…but then again, perhaps not. The boy's stability was paramount, and Solo remained an unnecessary complication which, if Indo couldn't directly remove, he could certainly distance.

He wondered occasionally at his more drastic actions to maintain the status-quo here…but if he had regrets, then they were from the more distant past. If he had failed Luke, then it had been in the boy's first years here…and he hadn't been alone.

Unbidden memories came to the fore—of Palpatine, of the child he had oppressed and terrorized so pitilessly, of the passive collaboration of those around, in allowing it to happen. And Indo had been no better, preferring the convenience of choosing not to see the truth—but what else could he have done?

What could anybody have done?

It had been made very clear to him, in no uncertain terms, that his opinion was not encouraged. The day following the boy's arrival in Court—and the Emperor's claiming of him—Indo had been turned back from the Presence Room by Pestage, with the well-known phrase, "The Emperor does not require your attendance today."

It was a stock phrase delivered to certain people daily, indicating that the individual was out of favor. It would often be spoken to the same individual for months on end, though they were still expected to attend the Presence Room outside the Throne Room daily.

And Indo did, every day listening closely for any intrigue which would serve or hamper his own son's rise—and coincidentally listening for any word on the unknown boy.

And word was not favorable. From that first day, the boy had remained locked in the Throne Room, whether Court was held or not, whether Palpatine was there or not. Gossip circulated that the child was often bruised and bloody, injured or completely unresponsive. Those who were allowed entry to Palpatine's elite inner Court came out with whispered tales of maltreatment; of extreme, violent reproaches if the child spoke or even moved without Palpatine's permission—sometimes there seemed no provocation at all, the Emperor simply turned on the boy, seeking him out if he had hidden in the vast chamber.

Then he somehow managed to steal away from the guarded Throne Room where he was locked alone every night, and it seemed that the whole Palace was awakened, Palpatine himself stalking the long, dark halls looking for the boy.

Pestage and ten Red Guards had demanded entry to Indo's apartments. Indo had, of course, allowed them to search his quarters, since the boy wasn't there—why would they assume he would run to a place he had only been in for few hours, especially since it was Indo who had handed the boy over to the Emperor? He hadn't known the boy's intended fate at the time, but the boy didn't know that.

Not knowing the Palace, tired and malnourished, he hadn't managed to get far, found within the hour. Retribution had been swift and merciless, doled out as only Palpatine could, the fact that its victim was only a child not for one moment entering the equation.

For the first time since he had been taken by the Emperor, Indo heard that the boy spent five nights away from the Throne Room. In the intensive care ward of the Palace medicenter—under heavy guard, of course.

And for the first time, people began to whisper that it would be better if the child had died.

Everyone assumed that he would in the long-run anyway—he simply couldn't survive this level of abuse for much longer.

But he did survive, and time passed.

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It was almost six months before Indo saw the boy again. Six months before the Emperor decided that he had clarified sufficiently to Indo why it was not advisable to speak out against him in Court, as he had done in defense of the boy that first night.

He was lucky that he hadn't been expelled entirely. But even that had turned out to be a manipulation.

Still, when Indo had finally been allowed access to the Throne Room again, where the boy was almost permanently imprisoned now, he had immediately searched for the child.

What he had seen…had been something else entirely.

Huddled into the corner of the room to the back of the dais behind the throne was a twisted pile of dirty rags. Feet bare, arms wrapped about himself against the cold of the winter evening, was a fragile, emaciated creature, empty eyes staring out of a gaunt, pale face, blue with bruises, scuffed with scars, some still red and angry, others already so old as to have faded. Those pale eyes shadowed by dark bruises met no one's face and held no hope, no prospect of reprieve, far too old for the small, frail body they stared out from.

And nobody looked; nobody approached him or offered any kind of acknowledgement. The boy's eyes rested momentarily on Indo's, but if there was any kind of recognition there then they did not let it show, moving immediately on, the boy lost in his own private misery.

He had struggled to his feet when Emperor Palpatine had swept regally into the room, bowing low as the rest of the Court did.

When Palpatine had settled on his throne, he had glanced behind him, his voice harsh. "Boy!"

In all the years Indo saw him in Court, he never once heard Palpatine call Luke by name. But then, Indo soon ceased to think of him in those terms too—he was hardly the same child who had been brought here.

The boy had made a sound, half-sigh, half-whimper which had churned Indo's stomach. But he had set immediately forward to stop beside the throne, the whole galaxy, for him, clearly consisting only of himself and the Emperor. Palpatine had grabbed at his arm and hauled him down to a spot near his feet, the child immediately understanding and dropping to his knees on the marble floor, head down, body tense.

"Stay there. Don't move."

That remained his only interaction with the child for the next five hours, during which time Indo watched the boy remain so still as to be unnerving, even his eyes never straying from the spot to the center of the room, no matter what took place around him. No noise, no commotion, nothing moved his head, his hands, his eyes.

The Emperor walked regally between the rows of inclined Courtiers, always the first to leave when Court retired. He paused before Indo, who had calmly risen at a gesture from his Emperor.

"Indo—we have missed you in Court. You will find that very little has changed. Rules and traditions are things which are upheld, as ever."

It was a none-too-subtle dig at Indo's departure from such in answering back to the Emperor in defense of the boy, and he wasn't about to be excluded for another six months for something so pointless.

"Just as you say, Excellency. Always."

Palpatine had smiled graciously, playing the part of the magnanimous ruler so well. Then, as the thought occurred, he'd turned slightly to the side. "Boy!"

The child rose quickly and slipped his way through the crushing crowd, looking neither left nor right, his uneven gait favoring his injured leg, which took no weight at all. When he arrived he made no sound, just stopped, body tense, head tilted in rapt attention, though he didn't meet the Emperor's eyes.

"Do you remember Viscount Indo?" the Emperor prompted, reaching out to rest his hand on the slight boy's shoulder, skin and bone now. The child had flinched, arm rising slightly, then looked quickly up through bruised-black eyes to study Indo's face for a few seconds, though Indo could not find it in himself to look when confronted by the empty stare, aware that the child's full attention was on the Emperor anyway.

He shook his head, eyes down again.

"Speak out, boy!" Palpatine snapped, grabbing a handful of hair to shake the child's head violently.

Strangely, the boy did not cry out, nor even lift his hands up further to protect himself. He just waited, shoulders tensed until the act was over, staggering against the ferocity of it, then without hesitation spoke out, though his voice was small and broken.

"No, Master."

"No," Palpatine repeated, releasing his hold slightly, though his fingers remained caught in the boy's knotted hair, nails to his scalp. "But perhaps he remembers you. Which would be…inopportune, wouldn't it?"

The boy made a slight double-take, knowing that a certain answer was expected of him, and that he must give it immediately.

"Y-yyy…yes?" he'd hazarded, tensed arms half-raised to ward off the expected assault, the alternate reply already on his lips.

"Yes," Palpatine had repeated, his eyes never having left Indo, the message explicit.

"As you say, Excellency. Though I'm afraid…I have no memory of meeting the boy." If the only way that Indo could remain in Court to serve his own son's interests was to offer vagaries about a child who to all intents and purposes didn't even exist any more, then he could do that.

It seemed adequate for the Emperor, who twitched one side of his lip up in a satisfied grin. "And how is your son, Viscount? I hear great things of him."

"He is very well, thank you, Excellency. Eager to be back."

"Good, good. I am told you are an exemplary influence—an outstanding educator. I foresee a great future for him here in my Court, if he is as commendably loyal as his father… Yes, a great future."

Bowing again, Indo had felt a flare of pride at the Emperor's recognition of Dubrail…though his eyes couldn't help but go back to the boy who still cringed beneath the Emperor's grasping grip.

Feeling that he had made the deal quite clear, the Emperor had turned to make his way from the chamber. And though his head was respectfully lowered, Indo's eyes had stayed on the boy who limped beside him, his head down, Indo's face already forgotten.

"Stay there," Palpatine growled simply as he reached the exit of the Throne Room.

The boy had halted without quite passing the threshold, gaze remaining after the Emperor—or perhaps simply on the world outside the confines of his opulent prison.

Courtiers had filed out past the hunched child, brushing and jostling him until he backed up, limping past Indo to return, resigned, to the corner behind the dais.

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In all, the poor child endured four years alone and at the mercy of Palpatine, with no one in Court daring to intercede. No one, Indo included, choosing to see as he spiralled down from a normal, if anxious and isolated child, into a silent, traumatized, feral creature, prey to Palpatine's remorseless abuse with all thought of retaliation beaten from him.

Occasionally Indo, who remained at Court, still pursuing his own son's future, would see the boy huddled in a corner in the Throne Room, becoming steadily more skeletal and less responsive, those huge blue eyes going from bewildered and desperate to blank and beaten. But the abject, disturbed creature hiding in the shadows of the Throne Room, weak and listless from hunger, at once terrorized by and bound to the Emperor, remained ignored by all, no one able to acknowledge the appalling maltreatment which the now-silent boy endured. He no longer looked for lenience, for any kind of acknowledgement or aid from those around him. He no longer met people's eyes, since they chose never to meet his. He simply survived, from day to day; from hour to hour sometimes, when the Emperor's relentless wraith was upon him.

And like everybody else, Indo had looked the other way. Privately, it pained him to see the boy like this, since he reminded Indo so much of his own son. But for Dubrail's sake, he averted his eyes, like everyone else. He held his silence. He looked away.

In those dark days, much as he had so clearly loathed him, even Lord Vader had ignored the boy completely—though he had more than made up for the reprieve since. So Indo expected no clemency when the Dark Lord arrived at the palace today—on Luke's sixteenth birthday, of all days. Nor would Vader be unforthcoming in his opinion of Luke's recent actions at Sinto Barracks. And the Emperor, as always, would listen.

If only the boy had been handed over to Indo aged seven, none of this would have been a problem. All of his flaws, his behavior, his wilder and darker traits, all stemmed from his years in the Throne Room, and Indo knew it. He knew too, of course, why the Emperor had done it: to control the boy completely. Or perhaps it was deeper than that… Sometimes Indo wondered whether he knew the whole truth—whether anybody ever would, where the boy was concerned…

Certainly, if Lord Vader knew more, then he had never deigned to share the facts with Indo. And what Indo knew, he would likewise never willingly share with Lord Vader. He frowned, reflecting again on Luke's retreat to that same deserted apartment time and again…

Considered Luke's private room at the end of the enfilade, hidden from prying eyes.

Scattered facts that could never come together, Indo knew. Only the boy and Palpatine knew the truth. He wondered, often, if it was that which had bound them together.

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check it out on my own website, where there's a little extra at the end of each one - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page (just click on my name at the top of the page), or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	7. Chapter 7

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**CHAPTER SEVEN**

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The sky was barely lit when Vader arrived in the turrets of the Imperial palace, though he knew that his Master already awaited him. He strode without hesitation along the stretching hallways, devoid at this hour of the simpering sycophants who had generally fought or bought their way to the top of the pile—or the bottom, according to your point of view. Cold, stone-slabbed corridors echoed his footsteps, quick to diminish even his bulky scale in this dour and dwarfing place.

His thoughts…his thoughts were what they always were, here. The unignorable tugged at his consciousness, a stain on his awareness which curled his lips in distaste. How long could he hold his tongue this time? Minutes would be an achievement.

Sometimes he wondered if his Master had kept the boy alive solely to rub salt in old wounds for Vader, a biting daily reminder of his own failings.

Even today, pin-sharp clarity defined Vader's memories of the first time that he had seen the boy… Because the same hatred that had fired in his gut in that instant did so again with undiminished fury every single time he looked into those wary eyes, far too old for the boy's years.

It had been the night of the assassination of the Organas'. Vader had been onboard his Destroyer, two days' travel from Coruscant, but had learned of the news within hours. He'd ordered the Destroyer's return to Coruscant as soon as he he'd heard, wondering if the attempt had actually been on Palpatine's life. Facts had been few during the two-day journey back to Coruscant, even on military channels—coded messages could always be unscrambled—and what facts there were on open HoloNet channels had seemed…unreliable. The Alderaanian Royal Family had always maintained a subtle, politically-driven defense of the values of the Old Republic, espousing its liberties even as the new Empire had gained in power. Initial HoloNet reports said that the Rebellion had already claimed responsibility, but little as he knew of the facts yet, Vader doubted that very much. Still, it remained the official line. If Palpatine was using this as an excuse to make the Rebels scapegoats and thus remove a constant thorn, then Vader would find out soon enough on his return to Coruscant. His Master had never withheld anything from him, speaking the truth even when it was hard to hear.

He'd reached the Palace in the early hours of the morning, three days after the assassination, and had gone immediately to his Master who remained, for some reason, in the now-empty Throne Room. Admitted at once, Vader had walked the length of the vast, austere hall to kneel before the Emperor, who was already speaking in harsh tones.

"You are late, Lord Vader—by three days."

"Master, I came as soon as…"

"You would always have been too late, Lord Vader," Palpatine had scolded. "As ever, you are reacting to the events _after_ they have happened, when you should know better."

"Yes, Master."

Palpatine shook his head slowly, eyes boring their disappointment into Vader. Yet he said nothing more, but simply waited, ochre eyes narrowed…

Not understanding what was expected of him, Vader rose, making the same case to his Master that he'd made a thousand times in his own head on the journey here. "There was no intelligence, no suggestion of an attack. It was completely unprecedented. We have no…"

"And still you react, when you should have already taken the initiative." Palpatine waved his hand in casual dismissal. "What is done, is done—and by it we have gained something of great value, Lord Vader."

His Master paused theatrically, and Vader remained silent, still uncertain. Palpatine tilted his head, tone patronizing. "You're growing lax, my friend. Even here, you should always look to the shadows—one never knows what they might conceal…"

Realizing, Vader turned his senses outward, tuning the scarlet flare in the Force that was his Master's presence out, to see… It was small and nervous and trying so hard to disappear into the deep shadows of the huge hall: the flicker that could one day be a flame.

Palpatine turned, reaching one pale hand out from the folds of his heavy gown, fingers outstretched in anticipation. "Here, child—come here."

The shadows behind the throne moved just slightly, seeming infused now by dread and anxiety.

"Come here!" Palpatine's words were the crack of a whip.

A sigh came from the shadows, more felt than heard…and a young child stepped out, small and slight, his fair hair roughly clipped close to his scalp. Big blue eyes full of fear, he couldn't have been more than six or seven. He edged nervously forward, hands clenched defensively before his chest, shoulders hunched. His skin was scuffed and scratched, and his nose had been bloodied, and he looked for all the worlds to Vader like a frightened animal trapped in a snare.

He came to a halt a few steps behind Palpatine, whose eyes had remained on Vader throughout.

"Do you sense his abilities?" Palpatine asked, fingers tightening into the cloth of the boy's shirt at his shoulder. "Do you see how they glow? They thought they could bring him here, beneath my own roof. They thought that they could hide him in plain sight—could parade their deceit and their treachery. I have tolerated their petty, subversive little deceits and deceptions for so long, but this was truly treasonous."

And there, the last piece of the puzzle slipped into place for Vader.

There had been no breach of the stringent security here, no infiltration, no assassination—not from outside, anyway. It had been an act of fury and revenge against Bail and Breha Organa, who had long associated with the Jedi when the Republic was still in place. There'd been quiet whispers for a long time they had helped those Jedi still alive to escape the purges and hide. Only their positions in a time of upheaval had saved them…though even that had been insufficient in the end. To be so stupid as to claim the child of some random, long-dead Jedi as their own flesh and blood…how long did Bail Organa think he could hide it if he brought the boy to Coruscant? But then he'd had no knowledge of Palpatine's capabilities, of course, Vader realized. Only Vader's abilities were commonly known—in general, his Master preferred his own Force-skills to remain in the shadows, a fact that had served him so well for so long. And had done so once more, it seemed, if a Force-sensitive child had come to light. And he was gifted, Vader realized, now that he had turned his attention on the boy. Trying desperately to hide, he still shone like a beacon.

Palpatine dragged the reluctant child forward by the cloth of his shirt, so that he stumbled slightly then hastily backed up a step, clearly terrified, as Vader's eyes stayed on him.

Vader felt his heart sink, knowing what would be expected of him. The deaths of the young at the Jedi Temple during that first great purge still haunted him in the still of the night, children murdered at his Master's order. He didn't regret it: it had needed to be done, but sometimes…sometimes the memory burned.

But then Palpatine always had something to sweeten—or sour—the pot.

"Lord Vader, meet your future rival. This is to be my new apprentice." Hand to the child's back, Palpatine pressed him forward once more. "Child, this is Lord Vader, my second-in-command, and the man in whose shadow you will always stand. Remember him…he will certainly remember you. Lord Vader, this is Luke, the son of Bail Organa…only not, of course." Palpatine's words dripped sarcastic amusement. "I had the genetic tests done two nights ago, and I thought you might be interested in his true lineage… The boy is Obi-Wan Kenobi's son."

Reality turned one complete loop in Vader's perceptions as the shock ran cold through him, settling like ice within. Kenobi… Kenobi had a son. Kenobi, who had preached of abstinence whilst his own lapse was safely hidden away. And his bastard son had lived, when Vader's child had died because of Kenobi's interference. Kenobi, who had spun bitter lies to make Padmé betray him, then goaded him into turning on her…

Before he knew what he'd done, Vader had snatched the boy's arm to haul him forward and shake him like a rag, so that the child's feet left the floor as he cried out in terror.

"Where is your father? Where is he!"

"D...dead! He's dead!" The boy's broken words were barely audible.

"Liar! He's alive. Where is he?" Vader yanked the boy clear of the ground entirely, scarlet fury driving him on. Kenobi's child lived, when his own had been lost to him forever! Everything of value to Vader had been torn away, whilst this little wretch survived.

Palpatine simply stood and allowed it; made no move to stop him as the boy's pitiful yelp turned into a longer cry of genuine pain. Vader released him to fall in a heap to the floor and watched him scrabble backwards behind Palpatine, arm hugged to himself, eyes wide. If he thought he would receive any kind of protection there then he was sorely mistaken, Vader knew.

"The boy does not know his heritage, Lord Vader," Palpatine said mildly at last. "He believes himself Bail Organa's son—or at least, he did. They had told him nothing—as apparently, they told you. Strange, that Kenobi was your mentor, your Master—your friend, he claimed…yet he never trusted you enough to tell you this."

Vader gritted his teeth at the provocation as he glared down at the boy, who had backed away behind the throne, eyes wide and tearful. And now, knowing who he was, Vader felt no guilt, no contrition. Just a heated spike in his blood that the boy was here, and under his control…that Kenobi would know that, sooner or later.

"If Kenobi comes for him…"

"You're still certain that he isn't dead?"

"Yes, Master."

Vader heard the distraction in his own voice, thoughts still reeling; Kenobi…the hypocrite! To hide away this little horror and proclaim his own virtue…and another's. The child's connection was incredibly strong—far stronger than his father's alone. Vader frowned beneath his mask, old memories lighting: on Genian…the Jedi Master with fair hair and blue eyes. They had a history, she and Kenobi, that much had been obvious. At the time of her death, Anakin had dismissed his own suspicions because of Kenobi's actions, but… What was her name? Could that be right—how old was the child? Vader frowned, eyes remaining on the huddled boy…

"He looks quite like his father, don't you agree?" Palpatine's words dragged Vader from his thoughts as his Master turned calmly to the boy, hauling him up again by the scruff of his shirt to take his scratched chin and turn it to Vader. The boy shied back, but Palpatine only gripped harder, fingernails tightening into those scuffed and scraped cheeks. "I didn't see it at first, but the more I look, the more I see Kenobi's eyes staring back at me…don't you see it? As I said, the boy knows nothing—I looked into his thoughts most carefully, and he has no ability to shield. I had them check the DNA test twice, from separate samples, both of the boy and the genetic profiles seized from the Jedi Temple…how fortunate that we kept them, hmm?"

"Tachi," Vader growled at last, the name hard to form beneath his fury.

"Who?" His Master straightened, and the boy tried to retreat, though Palpatine wrapped strong fingers about his shoulder, holding him still as he flinched just slightly.

"Master Siri Tachi. Check her DNA profile too." There had always been whispers…

"Ah!" Palpatine grinned, nodding. "I shall do that. Well done, Lord Vader…well done indeed. You knew her?"

"I was there on Azure when she died."

The Emperor turned again to the boy, leaning down to leer at him as he shrank back. "Poor little lost boy. Abandoned by your true parents and left behind by your new. All alone, once again."

The boy's head tucked low, grief-stricken, and Palpatine's hand snatched forward whip-fast to yank him forward, voice dropping low to drip menace. "If I see one tear, I'll turn you inside out and wring you dry."

Vader watched without feeling, seeing only Kenobi in the child now. Seeing only revenge.

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And revenge it had been, over the years from that day to this. Hard and hateful and absolutely implacable. Revenge that did nothing to slate the fury or resentment which burned within Vader, because in the end, it changed nothing. His own child and the woman who had carried it, whom Vader had loved with a passion so consuming that it had felt, at times, close to torment, were gone. Lost to him forever, along with everything that he had been and everything that he had hoped to be. All gone, burned in the fire of wraith and rage on Mustafar.

Only the boy remained…and the heat of Vader's bitter malice, which was directed just as easily at Kenobi's bastard son as it would have been at Kenobi himself.

And the Emperor, as ever, poured fuel on that fire without ever granting Vader the conclusion he desired. So he would try again today.

He rose from genuflection before his Master, blurting out the words without even an attempt at preamble. "The boy is out of control."

"Really? I have no such problem with him, Lord Vader. In fact, I find him the model advocate—more than you ever were. Perhaps you're being unnecessarily lenient with him?" The Emperor smiled thinly, voice mocking. "He does rather tend to take advantage of those who allow him to do so, I find."

Vader ground his jaw at the provocation, knowing with absolute surety that it wasn't the reason. "He is out of control. This little experiment should be terminated before it gets further out of hand."

Palpatine shook his head as if amused. "Ah, yourself and the boy…always the same argument from different sides. He would very much like me to remove you, did you know that?"

Vader lifted his chin, outraged. "If he wishes to challenge me, he knows where I am."

"What he—or you—wish, is irrelevant. What I dictate, is the way things shall be."

Vader held silent, knowing that to push any further was pointless. More and more in recent years, his Master had _dictated_ the way of things…and more and more, it had sat uneasily with Vader. His belief in the Empire—in a system which enforced strict control to drag order and stability from the quagmire of governmental corruption and civil war which had so blighted his youth—had not wavered. The Old Republic had been rambling in its own incomprehensible apathy, mired in endless directives and bylaws, and completely incapable of governing. But slowly, carefully concealed from the Master he had served for so long, Vader was beginning to wonder if his own personal standpoint held the more compelling vision of galactic rule than Palpatine's.

For now, he bowed his head in acquiescence. The boy was not in the palace anyway, that he could sense. His time would come. There would be a day when Palpatine's protection was withdrawn, and it would be the self-same day that Kenobi's bastard son perished. Vader would see to that.

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For Han, the day of Luke Antilles' sixteenth birthday started with a bang, when Luke himself turned out to be AWOL.

He should have seen the signs to the way the whole day would go, first thing that morning. Gorn had needed to knock Han up from sleep, late again, so that he'd still been fastening his jacket as they'd started their long walk to the kid's apartment. As they did so, Gorn had pulled his memopad to show Han the communiqué he'd received that morning.

"What's this?" Han had asked, abandoning his jacket half-fastened.

"My re-commission details. I got another year."

"I thought you said you'd been here two years already, and that was all Indo kept people for?"

"I did. But I said at the time that maybe if I kept my head down and stayed useful, Indo might keep me on, remember?"

"So what's the problem?"

Gorn shrugged. "With staying? Nothing. I told you before, despite your own weird opinion, Solo, this is a good commission. No, I'm more interested in the fact that they've given me a concrete finish date—they've never done that before. You know what I'm figuring?"

"Please?" Han had invited with dry disinterest, pulling the cuffs of his high-collared shirt straight, under his jacket.

"I think the Emperor will keep Luke here in the palace, still training, until he's seventeen next year, then Luke'll go into full-time service. Which means he won't need us any more. We'll be broken down as a unit and moved on to other posts, and they'll do their best to make sure that it seems for all the worlds that this place—and Luke—never existed. He'll go dark the moment he starts a full-time commission, and we'll never see him again." Gorn paused, considering his own words. "Actually, I'll kinda miss him."

"Seriously, you think he'll go below the radar?"

"Absolutely. You know what I heard?" Gorn glanced about as he leaned in conspiratorially. "I heard that he's not staying with the Ubiqtorate at all. I heard he'll be an agent…an Emperor's Hand. That's what all this is about—all his training, Indo's coaching, teaching him how to remember reams of stuff and to interpret and use it, all his languages, all that preparation, it's all to be an Emperor's Hand."

Han nodded non-committally, knowing for a fact, from the Emperor's own mouth, that the kid was being trained as a Hand. There was an ominous logic in everything else that Gorn was saying, though...the kid was already running duty missions occasionally. And if Gorn was right, and Luke went into full active service next year… The moment they took the kid, even if it was at just seventeen, he'd go dark, and that would be it. He'd be gone.

Han was still trying to work out just exactly how he felt about that when they got to the apartment five minutes later.

It was round about then that Gorn's bombshell proved to be nothing more than a warning ripple in a very long day.

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Apparently the kid had disappeared some time in the early hours, already gone when Indo had returned from another trip to that abandoned apartment. By the time that Han and Gorn had arrived for their shift, Indo had been up all night, waiting. Plus on top of this regular, everyday aggravation, the Viscount also seemed fuming about something entirely separate, waiting in the Red Room with arms crossed, his lips narrowed to a thin line.

Gorn leaned just slightly around the jamb of the staffroom door to study him from a safe distance, voice a near-whisper. "This is because Vader's in the palace."

"What, Indo?"

"No, Luke! Vader arrives in the early hours, Luke heads out in them. Coincidence?"

"You think he's hiding?" Didn't seem like the kind of thing the kid would do.

"No, he just got antsy. He doesn't like Vader. In fact he hates him…with a vengeance. He'll come back pretty soon though. He wouldn't let Vader push him out, and anyway, if he didn't get back pretty quick Palpatine would send half a battalion out after him. He did that once when I first came here." Gorn glanced back to Han. "It was messy…very messy."

"What happened?"

Gorn tipped his head gingerly out past the door again to check that the still-fuming Indo remained at a safe distance. "Luke had been having TIE lessons for about six months, I think. Then suddenly he steals a TIE from the military decks and takes off like a spooked ronto."

Han shook his head, grinning. "So he _can_ fly…"

"Hell yes, he can fly! You would not _believe_ how many TIEs it took to bring him back down. They had two Destroyers moving into geostationary orbit! Somebody somewhere gave out the order to fire a warning shot across his bow, and Luke turned about, straight into them and…it was bad. I heard that if they hadn't've had an Interdictor in orbit, or if the TIE had been lightspeed-equipped, Luke would've been gone."

Gorn lowered his voice again as he looked to the door, then back to turn to Han. "Listen, with Vader here and all… Well, there's something I'm not sure if anyone's told you yet…about Ashtor." Gorn leaned in a little closer, voice lowering. "You need to watch what you say around him. We…well, Indo thinks he's one of the opposition. More importantly, Luke does, and he's seldom wrong about that kind of thing, for obvious reasons."

Han stared, shocked. "Seriously, you think he's a Rebel?"

Gorn pulled back, alarmed. "What? No! No, Vader—we think he's passing information on to Lord Vader."

"Oh….Ohh," Han said slowly again as things fell into place: Gorn's casually dropped reference, made more than once, to the fact that Indo was reticent to leave information regarding Luke on the office message system, where he knew it could be viewed by Ashtor. Indo's aversion on another occasion to leaving Ashtor alone in the apartment, insisting that Gorn too stayed. Gorn's own uncomfortable trip over his own words not long ago, when he'd claimed no knowledge of Luke's whereabouts in front of Ashtor. The fact that Ashtor always seemed to get stuck with the nightshift, when—generally speaking—Luke did nothing more contentious than sleep. Or if he wasn't sleeping, then at least whatever else he was up to was a long way from the palace.

"And speaking of Lord Vader..." The office message system had flashed an incoming message, and Gorn reached forward to key it open. Reading it, he visibly blanched, sitting down hard to stare for a long time, as if making several rereads. "Oh, this is bad."

Han stepped up to the virtual screen, but the message had already been replaced by another incoming-message flash, showing the Emperor's private Cabinet code. Gorn keyed the message open, muttering beneath his breath. "Please be a message to say that the last one was wrong…"

"What was the last one?" Han asked.

Gorn placed his head in his hands, letting out an inarticulate groan.

"What was the damn message?" Han repeated, patience straining.

Gorn shook his head, his words muffled because he spoke without moving his hands. "Luke has an order from the Emperor's Office to attend lightsaber practice with Lord Vader at noon."

"What, that's it? Was that the last one too? What's the problem?"

Gorn looked instantly to Han, rising. "You go tell him."

"Tell who?"

"Indo—you tell him. He doesn't like you anyway."

"Thanks."

"C'mon, I'm in his good books at the moment."

"Fine," Han said. After last night, he didn't mind delivering a few knocks to Indo's uptight composure. "Wait—why does he care?"

"I've told you, Luke and Vader are always at each other's throats. Seriously, open animosity doesn't begin to describe it. Giving them lightsabers and telling them that they can legitimately take swings at each other is just one short step from mayhem."

"It's _practice_!" Han emphasized.

"Yeah, tell that to them," Gorn replied—then bundled Han out of the door. "Or better yet, tell it to Indo."

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It was a subtle change, when Han told Indo. The smallest drop in the Viscount's shoulders as he let out a long breath, the slightest tightening of worry lines about his eyes...which for Indo was tantamount to a full-on, head-in-hands response.

"I thought that had stopped at the Emperor's command?"

Han glanced down, suddenly guilty. He hadn't wanted a dig at Indo to be at the kid's expense. "Apparently it's on again."

Another long pause, as Indo scowled tightly. This must be bad, Han reflected, to get to the Viscount like this. Indo turned the small box that he was holding over in his hands, bringing Han's eyes to it. Etched and polished, it was about the size of an open hand, with no real indication of its contents, if any.

"Tell Gorn to bring his lightsaber," Indo said quietly. "He also needs to…" The Viscount stopped mid-sentence to rise, voice changing from hushed trepidation to relief, and then tinged anger. "Where have you been—and what time do you think this is, to come strolling in as if nothing's wrong?"

"And good morning to you, too." The kid's voice, completely unconcerned, turned Han about.

Indo continued, unabated. "Where have you been?"

"Out—wasn't that obvious?"

"I had to cancel lessons."

"I'm devastated," the kid said dryly, crossing the Red Room and passing Indo without slowing. "I'd also advise you to cancel a few more, because I haven't slept yet."

Beside Han, Indo slammed the small etched silver box forcibly down onto the table. The sound brought Luke's head about, and he slowed to a halt, annoyance and guilt visible in his tired face as he glanced away.

"Were did you get this?" Indo asked darkly.

The kid said nothing, and though Han knew he should probably withdraw, curiosity was holding him fixed now. Indo opened the box to empty its contents onto the polished table…

Ten or so scarlet-wrapped spice sticks fell out, as well as a small, clear bag, those familiar nuggets of ruby resin visible within.

"Since I sat up all night here, waiting," Indo said tersely, "I put the time to good use."

"You searched my rooms, you mean," Luke accused.

"If you didn't bring spice into the palace, I wouldn't need to do it."

"Well aren't I the bad wolf," Luke said dryly.

"I'm serious."

The kid remained typically unrepentant, amused even. "No, your nose is out of joint—there's a difference."

"Where did you get it?"

"See?"

"Where!"

"I don't even remember. Some cantina, probably."

"This could have anything in it!"

"Please, don't feign concern. You're just worried your hold is slipping."

"Luke…" Indo broke off to look down, searching for patience. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and level. "You know that this is unacceptable. It's dangerous and it's unnecessary, and it has to stop."

The kid glanced down, almost contrite in his silence when faced with level-headed concern, rather than heated accusations.

Indo swept the spice off the table and back into the box, turning to Han. "Dispose of this, please. Burn it."

Han took the box, instantly regretting his involvement as the kid fixed him with a brief look of world-weary betrayal.

Indo turned back to Luke. "You need to clean up and wake up."

"No, I need to get some sleep."

"You have lightsaber practice with Lord Vader."

The momentary look of genuine panic which rushed across the kid's face was instantly covered by a hard frown as he looked down, jaw tightening. "Fine. When?"

"Noon. If you'd been here sooner..." Even as he spoke, Indo's words turned from frustration to concern.

Luke remained still and silent for a few seconds more, eyes down, in that moment very much his young age. Then he shook his head, lips pursed to a thin line of self-reproach as he straightened to leave.

Indo, who had waited in silence, spoke out quietly. "Luke—do you need anything?"

The kid turned about, that indomitable look in his eyes once more, part willful defiance, part wayward mischief. "Well since you ask, I seem to be all out of spice at the moment."

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Luke leaned in the door of the staffroom, where Han was sat alone. "You're with me."

Han glanced up, surprised the kid was still speaking to him after he'd burned the spice. "Me?"

"Indo's not as young as he used to be," the kid said sardonically. "Staying up all night searching round my rooms whilst I'm not there takes it out of him these days."

"I didn't…help Indo find it or anything." Han said awkwardly.

He wanted to get the kid off spice as much as Indo did, but he didn't think sneaking searches for it and then rubbing the kid's nose in finding any was the way to go. At least right now, with the kid comfortable in letting Han know that he used it, Han had a good idea of what and how much the kid took—which was way, way too much. The last thing he wanted was for Luke to think he couldn't trust Han, and start concealing his actions.

As it was, Luke only glanced away, dismissive. "That's okay. We're even now."

"Even?"

"For last night."

Han abruptly remembered the kid using the Force to power him backwards and basically throw him out of the abandoned apartment. "Yeah, I…I didn't mean to…break anyth…"

"Oh, please stop," the kid said dryly, rebuffing any sentiment. "Whilst I still have some shred of respect left for you."

He'd walked in to lean on the edge of the nearest desk. Freshly changed, with his hair still wet from what had probably been a wake-up shower, he was dressed in a simple, form-fitting collar-and-cuffless shirt of dark slate grey with semi-fitted pants, wearing black leather gloves and supple boots, obviously suited to exercise. It struck Han only now how often he'd seen the kid leave the apartment dressed in similar gear, Indo a half-step behind, as ever. Kid must practice a hell of a lot, Han reflected, whether Vader was here or not.

"So, what are the odds in the palace at the moment?" Luke asked.

"What?" Han said, aware that he was playing for time.

"Odds," Luke repeated. "On who's going to put who in the medicenter this time? C'mon, since practice seems to be starting up again, I should at least be able to get in on the action."

"Why, you thinkin' of throwing a fight?" Han grinned.

"With Vader?" Luke shook his head. "No amount of credit's worth that."

There was a brittleness to the kid's confidence, Han noted, as he watched him continue to turn the lightsaber hilt about in his fingers, and realized that the kid was psyching himself up, as he continued.

"I'm guessing you'll follow Gorn's bet…which means the question is, who's Gorn betting on?"

Han hesitated, and the kid smiled, clearly amused at his discomfort. "Is this a good time to remind you that I can read minds?" he asked wickedly, as he turned back out into the apartment's main corridor. "Speaking of which, Gorn told you about Ashtor."

"Did you just pick that out of my head?"

"Yes—which is actually quite impressive, considering the amount of spice I smoked last night."

"You can't just wander round in people's heads."

"I beg to differ," the kid said glibly.

"Shouldn't," Han corrected. "You shouldn't."

"Whatever."

"So…is he?"

"One of Vader's moles? Yes …" Luke glanced past Han, attention suddenly elsewhere as he stepped across him to straighten a canvas hung in the dark-walled corridor, then backpaced to stare at it, head tipped to one side. "Myself, I'd turn the man's head three-sixty, but Indo says better the devil you know. Is that straight?"

Han barely glanced at the canvas. "Yeah. So wait, you all know?"

"You didn't look."

Han pursed his lips, glancing to the canvas. "Great—it looks great."

"I'm not asking for an opinion—though I have to say that was an inspiringly expressive, deeply sensitive and profoundly thought-provoking evaluation of a complex piece of art—I'm asking if it's straight."

Aware that he wasn't going to get a word of sense from the kid till he checked, Han finally turned to look more carefully. As he did so, the kid stepped closer behind him.

"Besides, Ashtor's the least of our problems. You know who's missing from this cosy little homestead? Palpatine."

Han half-turned. "Palpatine? Last I checked, he was definitely in the building."

"No, I don't mean physically, I mean in terms of shadowing…surveillance. Who's close to us and reporting to Palpatine?"

"Why do you assume someone is?"

"Someone's always reporting on someone, here."

Han grinned at the kid's paranoia. "Yeah? So who do you report on?"

Luke shrugged, unabashed. "Pretty much anyone I'm asked to."

"Seriously?"

"Please, don't kid yourself; they'd do the same to me if they could. And before you roll your eyes and judge, you might like to consider the palace as your basic, if a little carnivore-heavy, food chain."

"That's easy to say when you're at the top."

"You say that only because you're not," Luke countered dryly.

"I'd never be another Ashtor," Han said firmly. "And what does that make you, if you'd do the same, and report to Palpatine?"

Luke shrugged. "Like they say, there's little point in fighting your way to the top of the food chain to become a vegetarian."

"Hey, two wrongs can't make a right."

The kid loosed a fresh-faced grin, absurdly endearing—and he knew it. "No, but ten of them make my average day."

Han let out a laugh that broke the suffocating silence which always pervaded the cold, dour apartment. Aware of someone's eyes on him as they turned to leave, he glanced back just once, to see Indo stood stiff and upright, eyes narrowed with resentment.

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They walked the lofty, imposing corridors in silence for a while, and Han found his eyes drawn more than once to the lightsaber hilt that the kid held. It was a simple tube, nothing like the more elegant antiques which Han had seen listed under 'prohibited weapons' in the military database. They'd all seemed more elaborate, ornate, even. But this was plain and unadorned, little more than a tube with two inset buttons towards the angle-cut tip, its brushed surface marked by many knocks and scrapes, and the remainder of its length covered by a matt, non-slip grip.

The kid rolled it compulsively in his fingers, though Han couldn't tell if it was nerves or anticipation. "Worried?"

"About?"

"Vader. Gorn seems to think this is a big thing. So does Indo."

"Ah. I thought I got off lightly on the spice thing," Luke said with a nod. He shrugged. "No, not worried, not really. It's good practice."

Han spread his hands. "That's what I thought!"

"For when we do it for real some day."

"Wait, what?" Han stuttered to a stop, reaching for the kid's arm, though he slipped it subtly away.

But he turned, that slight smile still on his face, like armor. "Sith don't generally…get on."

"You get on with Palpatine, and he's the one person I'd—"

"Palpatine's my Master. You don't turn on your own Master," Luke said with conviction. "Ever."

"Not even when he throws you and Vader into a room with lightsabers and tells you to get on with it?"

The kid threw a brief, amused glare at Han as he started walking again. "Like I said, this is practice."

"In your carnivore-heavy food chain, huh?" Han asked. "If it's practice, how come everyone else in the whole damn palace thinks it's something else? You're telling me Palpatine doesn't know?"

"Of course he knows—but he also knows that's what makes good practice. You never go into any duel without emotion. Emotion is what fires you, the commitment that drives you to win…if you can hold it in check and use it. So he does this for my benefit."

Han cocked an eyebrow. "He tell you that?"

"He doesn't have to."

"Please, that's not a reason, it's an excuse."

"He has his reasons, for everything he does. It's not just arbitrary."

"Okay, I'll bite… Why does he do it—all of it, I mean?"

"To make me stronger."

"That what he tells you?" Han asked again, unable to keep the cynicism out of his voice.

"You're a soldier, you went through basic training. You know that the ability to keep moving under pressure is a learned response. That's why they break conscripts down, force them to the very edge: to push them past their own barriers. Tell me it wasn't the same."

"It wasn't the same—and you're not doing basic training."

"Of course I am—I have been all my life."

"Nobody trains their whole life."

"Some do…some posts demand it."

"Like Emperor's Hands?" Han asked casually.

The kid glanced to him, then looked ahead again. "The Emperor told you."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't need to."

Han almost called the kid on it—then realized that if he did so, he'd've been effectively dragged off-subject. So he allowed that with a slight tilt of his head. "How many are there?"

"Hands? Who knows? I can name two others, but that doesn't mean anything. The two I know both believe they're the only one, and work in complete isolation. There was a third, but he's long gone."

"Who are they?"

Luke grinned without speaking.

"C'mon," Han cajoled. "I know who you are. What difference would a few more names make?"

"Do I really have to go through the whole, 'I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you' routine?" the kid asked, amused. "And even if I didn't do it, one of them would, to maintain their invisibility."

"How would they even…" Han trailed off. "Can they do what you can do—with this Force thing?"

"Yes…and no. None have my wider training in the Force, I think. Not that I've sensed, anyway, not since Marek—and he wasn't trained by Palpatine. I think that's why my Master wanted rid of him; generally, he teaches each Hand only one or two things. I know one of those left can use the Force to communicate with Palpatine over extreme distances…I'm talking systems apart here. But I haven't seen her for years. I remember her around the palace when I was younger though. We practiced together for half a year, with lightsabers. The other was recruited by Vader from the COMPNOR Youth organization."

Han's own thoughts mirrored the distaste in Luke's voice at that; the Youth Organization was little more than a State-funded indoctrination program, to Han's mind. Interesting though, that Luke recognized the propaganda fed to other Hands, but didn't see it in himself.

"So what exactly do you all do?"

"Hands are undercover agents who work for, and are answerable directly to, the Emperor. No one else, just him. We do anything that has to happen below the radar. Intelligence gathering, assassinations, surgical strikes, that kind of thing—whatever he commands. Absolute, unquestioning loyalty."

Luke paused—and Han saw the change in the kid's face as if, in speaking them to Han, he'd just heard those last words for the very first time. The kid glanced away, discomfited. In some ways he was incredibly worldly, in others, almost naïve. In just a few he was painfully vulnerable…though he hid it well.

"And that's what you're gonna do?"

"Yes."

Despite that brief burst of unease, Han strained in vain to hear any sliver of doubt in the kid's conviction. "You didn't seem so sure in that abandoned apartment last night."

Luke tensed, instantly on the defensive. "Don't. You have no idea about anything that happened."

"No…" Han was trying so hard to be diplomatic this time, aware that the kid's emotions ran pretty high in this. "But I do know th…"

"Don't," Luke said flatly, the warning clear. "Just don't."

Han could see the kid shutting down, shutting him out. Maybe now wasn't the time, with Vader's arrival and all. He paused, speaking aloud his thoughts—kid could probably read them anyway, or whatever the hell his kind did. "Vader's Sith, right?" He'd heard as much, but since he seemed to be spending his days among their kind now, Han figured it was best to get stuff like this clear.

Luke nodded without speaking, so Han tried another prompt.

"Like you?"

"Not like me," Luke said quickly. "Not like me at all. Vader can't be trusted. He has no loyalty to the Emperor."

"That why you don't like him?"

Luke pursed his lips, not willing to be drawn. "We're here," he said simply, lifting his hand to the door release.

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Darth Vader was already waiting in the practice hall when they entered, staring out across the city before a long bank of tall windows whose privacy filters had reduced the midday light to a soft haze. His back to the opening door, he wore a heavy floor-length cloak of absolute black, the light catching in broken glints across the gloss of the cowled helmet he wore. In the brooding silence, the grating rasp of the mask he wore lent a threateningly surreal edge that was altogether too inhuman.

Han had heard a lot about Vader, of course: the Emperor's henchman, Commander of his armies. From forty paces away, he didn't look too bad. A big guy though, wide at the shoulder and stood solid as a statue, but still…

They walked closer…and closer…and the guy just kept on getting bigger and bigger. With nothing around him to lend scale, from the far side of the massive hall he'd seemed wide, but this…this was unreal. The man towered over…hell, over pretty much everybody, Han figured.

Vader finally deigned to turn and walk forward, his back straight, pace measured, huge arms clasped at his back beneath that draping cloak...and Han found himself slowing just slightly, so that Luke was a few paces ahead of him. Vader didn't once look to Han, that dark, unreadable mask instead holding on the kid with absolute focus.

When they were perhaps ten paces apart, Vader pulled his hand from beneath his long cloak and threw something to the floor at Luke's feet. "Put them on—ankles."

Han glanced down at the same time that Luke did. On the polished stone floor of the practice hall were a set of binders with an unbreakable cord between them of perhaps a foot and a half at the most. Luke didn't move… Han didn't blame him.

Instead the kid looked warily back up at Vader. "What are these for?"

"Your footwork is lazy and loose. You overstep, cross-step and overreach constantly." His deep, bass tone rumbled somewhere beneath Han's ribcage, the effect unsettling. Didn't seem like he was particularly given to pleasantries either.

Luke pursed his lips. "My footwork is fine."

"Then the binders will make no difference."

"The binders will stop me being able to jump or flip."

"You overuse such moves," Vader grated.

"What you're saying is, you have no counter to them."

That faceted mask gave nothing away as Vader took the lightsaber from his belt. "Put the binders on, or cede the lesson."

There was an unspoken threat in the last. Not from Vader himself, Han knew, but from the fact that it would be duly reported to Palpatine that Luke had refused to comply with the Emperor's order. That would be what the kid would be thinking right now, as he stared at those binders.

Still, he held his ground for a few seconds more, weighing up the possibilities… Then he let out a sigh and lowered his eyes, dropping to sit on the floor and pull the binders to him. He paused for a moment before attaching the first one to his ankle, slow to fasten the second…

The moment, the _instant_ that the second binder latched into place, Vader came forward in a blur of speed, forcing Luke to scrabble back, losing his footing against the restriction of the binders and rolling to the side at the last moment as Vader's still-igniting lightsaber came down in a heavy slash which hissed into the dark floor.

It had happened so fast that by the time that Han had shouted out from his place at the edge of the room, taking three fast steps forward in shock, the first exchange was already over. He stared, uncertain whether the saber blow would have been a near-miss if the kid hadn't rolled, still agape at the ferocity of the attack.

Luke had somehow gotten his feet under him with the roll, his own saber lighting in his hand as he rose. Vader gave him no time to prepare, stepping swiftly in to swing a fast sidewards blow at his back. Not yet even standing, the kid brought his own blade over his head with the point vertically down to protect his spine from the blow, then twisted about with both blades still in contact, swiping Vader's blade up and away as he staggered quickly back. The binders pulled tight at every step to set him precariously off-balance.

Vader slowed to stalk a loose circle about Luke, his huge bulk dwarfing the slight youth, though he seemed disinclined to give any concession to the fact. He made two feints, stepping in with saber raised, the rasping hum of his blade changing pitch each time it moved in wide arcs, though the kid's blade was there, waiting. Getting used to his limited step, it was actually Luke who launched the next attack, a series of lightening-fast blows, two from the same side, the third suddenly swinging about mid-blow to come in from a higher angle. Vader backstepped quickly at the third blow, and Luke pushed forward—and staggered, overstepping his limited reach.

There in a second, Vader slashed a mighty backward swing which almost took Luke's hilt from his hand, knocking his blade away to leave him wide open. He ducked low beneath the blow, staggering again when he didn't have the reach to correct his changing center of balance, and forced to give ground simply to stay upright, one hand going briefly to the ground.

Vader's saber arced back round swiftly in a high swipe of incredible speed. The kid's own blade was there immediately, but he simply didn't have the strength to counter it, so instead of trying, he caught the blade but let his own almost loose. Vader's blade ran down Luke's with no resistance for a second—just long enough to leach that massive strike of power as Luke leaned back and guided the blades over his head. The binders at his ankles pulled taut as he slid his blade free, his opponent a fraction of a second behind for having been forced to reverse the direction of his saber's swing to maintain his defense. Luke backstepped as Vader paused, forced to halt, having no counter to the kid's move.

Amidst his amazement at the duel that was unfolding before him with breakneck speed and reckless momentum, Han actually felt a surge of pride that the kid could do this—that he could hold his own against that massive mountain of muscle and fury. Where the hell had he learned this—when?

They paused in brief respite, each walking slowly around the other, seeking some unknown weakness or momentary lapse which signalled an opportunity, real or feinted. Vader flicked his blade one-handed in a casual threat towards the kid, who swatted it away, neither one taking the incentive to turn the move into a genuine attack—yet. Scarlet red and white at their core, the blades coruscated with crackling power, Vader's a true blood red, Luke's a half-shade closer to warm amber, its tone just slightly deeper.

Again, Vader flicked his saber low in an empty threat as they circled…then he stepped in with a fast blow which caught the kid's saber up in his own, clearly trying to hook it free. Luke spun his own blade with, rather than against the move, sliding it back as he did so, so that its tip came dangerously close to Vader's gloved hand, again forcing him to break. He did so with a swift sideward move and a heavy step forward which made even Han shout out in shock as Vader shouldered into the kid with enough force to send him staggering back several paces, almost toppling as the binders on his ankles pulled tight.

To Han, it wasn't hard to see very quickly that the kid was at a huge disadvantage simply in terms of punching outside of his weight-class here. Han had zero experience of lightsaber duelling of course, but having been involved in his fair share of bar room brawls, he knew an unfair fight when he saw one. Clearly, all the kid had going for him was speed and dexterity, and Vader had effectively nullified both with the shackles on Luke's ankles.

The kid did anything he could to avoid those big, overhead swings, knowing that he had nothing to counter them. Vader towered above him, unarguably stronger, a mass of wired muscle, with a higher center of gravity and a longer reach. Han couldn't imagine himself having the power to withstand one of those massive roundhouse swings, let alone the kid. Sure enough, instead of even trying, the moment Vader pulled back for another bone-jarring blow, the kid darted in with a quick slice to force Vader to break his own offensive, then sidestepped rapidly in short, fast steps, imposed by the manacles at his ankles.

Still, despite struggling against the binders, Luke wasn't particularly giving away any free shots that Han could see. Which was just as well, since Vader was an absolute powerhouse of raw aggression, not pulling any punches in consideration of the fact that this was supposed to be just a training exercise.

In fact, it was becoming pretty damn clear now that the word 'lesson' was wildly inaccurate here. Aside from effectively hobbling the kid before they'd even started, Vader didn't exactly seem to be going out of his way to give any advice or pointers. This was a 'lesson' in the same way that Han flying his TIE into pitch battle was 'good experience.'

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Vader powered forward again, his bulk enough to make the ground jump beneath Han's feet as the kid made several fast steps on the spot in readiness. Han jerked in response, chest constricting as one of those immense blows came in sideways towards Luke at head-level. At the last second Luke caught the blow, bringing his leading arm up high as both blades passed so that his own saber twisted over the top of Vader's, putting him inside of Vader's defense and holding control of both blades, and Han wanted to yell out, "_Yes!"_ from the sidelines.

The kid was incredibly fast, pushing Vader's blade away with a final thrust as he stepped in, swiping his saber swiftly in towards Vader's torso. With nothing to counter, Vader was forced to a hasty retreat, stepping awkwardly to the side to avoid the blow. At the last second he managed to catch Luke's wrist in an iron grip and drive his hands down, so that the kid's saber missed his hip by inches and sparked instead across the knee of Vader's black-polished greave.

It was ungainly and it was inelegant and it was clumsy, but it bought Vader the time he needed. As Luke tried to wrench free, Vader pulled his own saber back in, hilt first, to land a heavy backhanded blow against the kid's temple just above his eye, with sufficient power to send him staggering to the side, his head wrenched back by the blow.

Luke wove a second, and Han thought the kid's legs might actually give way as he staggered back, head rolling, knocked near-unconscious. A bloom of dark blood rushed to the open wound in seconds, making Luke flinch as he shook his head, loosing one hand from his saber hilt to wipe a wide smear of it clear from his eye.

Vader didn't even hesitate. He came round in a single step, his free hand clenching to a fist as he delivered another massive, teeth-rattling blow, snapping Luke's head round.

And this time he went down.

Han yelled out as Vader stepped in, his saber before him, tip down. Would he do it—would he actually make the blow?

Somehow, the kid had enough about him to bring his own lightsaber up before him in weak defense as he lay on his back. Vader parried it easily as he stepped in close, hooking the saber from Luke's blood-stained hands to spin in a wild arc across the room, clattering to a halt which took uneven gouges from the dark floor, the blade disappearing into the surface as the hilt remained above.

Han was still striding forwards with another yell, not for a moment considering how the hell he was going to stop a mountain of muscle and aggression with a lightsaber in its hand.

Vader glanced up, momentarily distracted, and the kid seemed to rally, coming round enough to hook one foot around Vader's ankle then use the other, at the very edge of the binder's limited reach, to deliver a heavy kick into the side of Vader's knee, knocking it inwards with a grinding crunch that sounded almost metallic to Han.

Staggering as his knee gave way, Vader caught his own weight with one bunched fist to the floor as Luke scrabbled wildly backwards, trying to get far enough away to risk turning over to stand. He'd barely got an arm's length before Vader's black-gloved hand shot out and grabbed the cable of the binders about Luke's ankles to drag him back, the kid's shirt riding up as he struggled, no handholds to slow him down.

To Han, watching from the sidelines, this was fast devolving from what had been a hostile and barely legitimate practice session, to a no-holds-barred brawl which, if you took the sabers away, wouldn't be out of place in the back alleys of the dodgiest districts of any shady port.

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Pulled too close and facing Vader's long reach as he leaned in to grab Luke by the scruff, the kid brought his knees up in time to get his bound feet under Vader's stomach, pushing back to stop that brawny arm from reaching him. Finally, Vader stopped trying and let out a low grunt as he brought his saber around for a stab. Luke heaved his legs to knock Vader back, and the tip of that scarlet blade briefly caught at his arm, burning a neat, circular hole through his shirt and into the flesh beneath.

The kid let out a brief grunt as he jerked aside. The smell, like burned meat cooking, turned Han's stomach.

Winded by the kick, Vader took a second to recover as Luke rolled onto his side, gasping, one hand to his shoulder, though he didn't dare slow. Already he was hauling his legs under himself, blinking rapidly to get the blood from his eyes and backpedalling as Vader straightened. As the kid retreated Vader came forward, swinging his saber round in a menacing arc of scarlet-edged light, its grating hum ominous as he closed on the empty-handed kid.

Han stared, fixed in place, breath frozen…

Vader was just two steps away, saber brought back for a roundhouse strike… Then, still staggering from the restriction of those damn binders, the kid did something amazing—

For a second, Han thought that he'd slipped and was about to fall onto his back as his body tilted and arched back…then his arm came out and his knees tucked, and he sprang his whole body back from standing into a tight flip, his outstretched hand touching briefly against the floor to move his center of balance further back and make the somersault longer, instantly putting him beyond the reach of that wide, sweeping blow. Immediately on landing, he did the same thing again, throwing himself back with greater force, the momentum from the first flip giving him height—

And this time, mid-flip, the saber that had remained on the floor ten paces away wrenched free and flew in an undeviating line into the kid's outstretched hand, igniting to land solidly in his palm as he was at the height of the flip. It spun in a wide slash of bright amber which seemed to move in opposition to his body, close enough that Han genuinely feared that the kid would lop off a limb…

By the time Luke hit the floor with a heavy, solid thud the cord between the binders had been severed, cut through mid-somersault, the edges of the metal glowing red-hot.

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Vader didn't slow, coming in with another high, heavy, roundhouse swing that must have rattled the kid's teeth to hold against. Again Luke caught the blade and let it pass without trying to slow it, guiding it over his head as he twisted back and to the side in avoidance. But instead of straightening to step in as he had before, this time he stayed down to launch a swift, high kick that caught against the edge of Vader's helmet, snapping his head to the side and knocking it askew, to leave a pale scuff on the polished cowl.

With the step length to maintain his balance now, Luke twisted swiftly back to regain his center, his saber held side-on as he again swiped the still-seeping blood from his eye, braced for the next move.

Vader slowly straightened his intimidating bulk, lifting one hand to calmly set the cowl of his helmet level again. He glared for long seconds, and Han could swear he heard a low growl come out with that rasping breath. He came back with a vengeance, launching a wide, backwards roundhouse swing of incredible speed. But the kid was already ducking back, the blades barely touching with a brief, scarlet-tinged flare which guided Vader's saber through the empty space above Luke's head…and put him inside Vader's guard.

Luke twisted about in a low spin, his saber blazing a wide arc as it headed for Vader's midriff, again forcing the mountain of a man to back up in retreat from this slip of a kid.

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As Vader came forward this time, Luke released one hand from his saber hilt to bring it up, fingers outstretched to Vader. In a flurry of movement contrary to gravity, Vader's heavy cape lifted about him and twisted forwards, its fabric snaking over Vader's head and shoulders like a live thing, obscuring his vision completely as he let out a brief grunt of surprise. At the same time Luke came forward with a wide blow which ripped through the air in a bright blur, aimed for Vader's midriff.

Despite being blinded, Vader turned into the blow and brought his saber round with unerring precision to intercept the strike, knocking Luke's saber to the side as Vader quickly backstepped, dragging his cape clear in a single move and throwing it aside to land in an abandoned heap.

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Again, the pitch moved up a notch, the movements becoming faster and fiercer as those blazing ruby blades moved at incredible speed, lightening fast blurs of strike and counter played out in the wide, blinding flares which cut through air, their grating buzz the only sound that reverberated through the massive hall. Vader remained that absolute powerhouse of unstoppable strength and raw aggression, vicious, crushing blows linked effortlessly together, every one a jolting pound that pummelled his opponent with relentless brute force.

Luke was fast and agile, cutting in between those massive swings with brief, precise strikes, measured to cause maximum problems with minimum contact. Constantly moving, constantly looking for that next opportunity, that fleeting fault. The slightest overreach in those wrenching blows, the briefest overextension which reduced Vader's guard on those wide, unstoppable swings.

Several times the kid was forced to break off, taking the risk of lifting his hand from his saber hilt to swipe at the wide cut above his eye, then forced a few seconds later to do the same again to wipe his palm as his blood-wet hand slipped on his saber hilt.

He pressed on with all the energy and dynamism of youth, landing blow after blow, none powerful or crushing, but an ongoing rain of swift, accurate strikes which slowly drove Vader back, searching for an opening…which surely would come for one or the other of them, because neither could maintain this kind of pace.

It wasn't until Vader was there, that Han realized what the kid was doing. Vader conceded another step as Luke forced forward, catching both their blades in a brief push which gave Vader's backward step unanticipated momentum in the same moment that his heel came to his abandoned cloak. His foot faltered as the cloth slid over the polished floors, sending him staggering for a single, brief step…

And Luke was already pulling his own saber back in carefully timed anticipation. He dealt one mighty blow as Vader released his saber hold to single-handed to regain his balance—and the upward slice batted it away, leaving Vader completely open.

Luke stepped swiftly in, the final dénouement to the last few minutes of carefully directed fighting… He thrust his lightsaber forward in a swift, vicious stab aimed directly at the center of the life-support panel on Vader's chest, pushing it home until the end of the hilt hit the plassteel panel with a jolting _thunk!_

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For a horrific moment, Han thought that the kid had driven the blade home through Vader's chest, so that it was completely embedded up to that hilt, its light concealed within… But as both Vader and the kid remained motionless, frozen in that final action, Han realized that as Luke had brought the saber round and in, he must have also deactivated it, so that the blade had died to nothing in the same moment that Luke had driven the hilt forward: proof that if he hadn't, the strike would have been a lethal one.

Now, his chest still heaving from the fight, blood smeared unevenly down his face and widening into a dark stain on the chest of his shirt, Luke tilted his head to look into that black faceplate.

Vader lifted his face from staring at the hilt still pressed to his chest, and Han wondered if he too, just for an instant, had thought the kid had pushed the blade home…

The blow was explosive, Vader's closed fist reeling round to catch Luke across the side of the head and send him staggering back in a spray of scarlet, knocked almost off his feet. Immediately Vader grabbed for him, catching the dazed kid by the scruff and dragging him in.

Luke reacted like a wild thing, yelling out as he struggled against the hold, twisting violently, frantically, to try to pull free or turn about to face Vader. But Vader was so much stronger and he yanked Luke back, one of those massive arms wrapping around the kid's neck as he struggled, to hold Luke pinned with his back against Vader's body as that unyielding arm tightened, cutting off air.

Luke grappled desperately, but there was no way he'd pull free. With a frenzied yell, he brought his hand holding the deactivated saber hilt up. Vader abandoned his own saber hilt to clatter to the floor as he grabbed the kid's wrist, his massive fist engulfing Luke's as he wrestled for control—but Luke's arm was already lifted to shoulder height, his finger on the activation button. In an effort to stop the boy lighting the saber, Vader forced the hilt in towards Luke's own body, so that rather than reaching over himself in striking distance of Vader, the tip of the deactivated hilt was now pressed against Luke's own shoulder, held there by Vader's iron grip over Luke's own—and still his hold about Luke's neck tightened.

Luke let out another strangled yell of frustration, pinned against Vader, furious but fading, gasping for air.

And Han knew—he _knew_ what the kid would do. He set forward at a broken run, shouting out—

Their two hands about the deactivated, blood-slick saber hilt trembled as Luke and Vader struggled to take control…and pinned against Vader's body, with the hilt still pressed against the hollow where his shoulder met his collar bone, Luke's thumb went to the activation button…

He knew…he knew that if he activated the blade, it would go through him and into Vader. He'd be badly injured, but he'd get the strike he'd held back on before.

Luke's thumb touched the button as Vader's grip about his neck tightened, attempting to cut off all air…

At the last second Vader stepped back and released the kid with a wild shove, pushing him away just as the saber activated. It caught across the very edge of Luke's shoulder as it ignited, so that he dropped it with a yelp, the blade already deactivating.

Luke fell to a half-crouch, gasping for air as Han came to an abrupt halt five paces away, uncertain what to do. Vader was already shouting out, furious and agitated.

"Fool! Reckless child! I should have let you activate the blade!"

"Please—the only…" Luke was forced to pause, still struggling for breath. "...the only reason you stopped me was because you would have been injured too."

Vader took a step forward as his own abandoned saber hilt lifted to slap against the black leather of his gloved hand, fist tightening about it. "You're right, it was. In a duel, I would have twisted the hilt to your throat and been all too willing to activate it."

"If it had been a duel, I wouldn't have deactivated mine in the first place."

They glared at each other. Vader towered over the battered and bleeding kid who was still half-hunched, one hand to his injured shoulder as his chest heaved. But the set of his feet and the wired tenseness in his stance indicated that if Vader chose to press the fight, Luke would answer.

Vader stepped in, intimidating by sheer bulk, voice a low growl. "You are not my equal."

Luke reached his hand to the side without looking, and his own bloody saber skittered about and flew to his palm as he struggled upright. "You know damn well I am. Any time you want to settle this…"

"With the boy who hides behind the Emperor's throne?" Vader taunted.

Luke opened his arms, his saber still deactivated but the invitation obvious. "I see no Emperor here."

"I have nothing to prove before you. I've fought more real duels with fanatical and dangerous Jedi Masters than you could even hope to survive, and I know what it feels like to have a saber cut deep."

"So do I...you always were the consummate teacher, _Lord_ Vader. I still have the scars to attest to that fact."

"The lessons are not over yet," Vader growled.

Watching from the sideline, his stomach tightened into a burning knot of anticipation, Han thought the kid would launch forward there and then… In fact, Luke simply let out a scathing laugh, then turned to the door.

"Don't turn your back on me!" Vader bellowed, outraged.

"This lesson is over," Luke stated without even bothering to turn. "If all you have left to teach me is how to flinch before a live blade, then we're done. You're of no use to me any more."

Vader lunged forward with a yell, his saber igniting as he brought it high—

Luke turned about…but kept his arms by his side and his lightsaber inactive as Vader closed, a maelstrom of noise within a flurry of raven-black robes.

Han let out a yell, frayed nerves sparking—

The buzzing saber sliced in from that high swing as the kid held his ground, unmoving, lightsaber still at his side…

The blade stopped an inch from Luke's head, close enough that displaced air lifted his hair to sizzle where it touched the edge of the coruscating blade. The scarlet glow lit his bruised and blood-smeared features as he stared, steadfast and still, at Vader.

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"You are lucky that the Emperor holds you of value," Vader grated reluctantly at last.

"From now on, you'd better pray the same of yourself." Luke turned and walked calmly to the doors.

Han found his feet and followed, resisting the temptation to bundle the kid out of there while Vader still remained frozen, breath rasping.

Only when he was close—when he'd reached the door beside Luke, and seen him lift his hand to the release plate—did Han see just how badly the kid's hand was shaking.

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check it out on my own website, where there's a little extra at the end of each one. There's a link to it on my bio page (just click on my name at the top of the page), or the address is all the three w's ". alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!) - hope you'll enjoy!

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	8. Chapter 8

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**CHAPTER EIGHT**

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Han walked a good few corridors from the Practice Room in silence, beside Luke. The kid too remained quiet, a slight limp to his stride as he swiped at the wide cut above his eye from the hilt of Vader's saber, when he'd made that fierce blow to Luke's temple. Now, beginning to swell, the wound was opening up even further to trickle down over the edge of the kid's eyebrow and into his eye.

Han glanced sideways from time to time, but held his silence, wondering if Luke was as eager to be away from Darth Vader as he was, his thoughts going back again and again to the kid's outward control as he'd turned his back on the livid, openly hostile hulk of Vader, to walk coolly from the chamber… To Luke's hand, unseen by Vader, trembling as the kid had reached out to hit the door release plate.

So he waited a while, knowing from personal experience that when you got that close to the edge, it took a while to come down and get back inside your own head. He wondered briefly how many times the kid had made this walk before…how many times he'd had to make it without having finally faced Vader down.

Remembered again how frantically Luke had reacted when Vader had gotten a hold of him, how he'd yelled out, struggling desperately as that thick arm had locked around his neck, cutting off air.

Blinking away the intensity of the kid's panic, Han saw instead that incredible double backflip from a standing start as the kid had called his lightsaber to his hand mid-flip and with unerring aim, to cut free his ankles as he'd somersaulted…and he couldn't hold quiet any longer. "How the hell do you know all that stuff?"

Luke shook his head as he shrugged. "This is what I do—this is what I've always done."

Han glanced to him without staring as Luke wiped at his nose, smearing a line of blood across his cheek. "You gonna get in trouble for this?"

"For what?"

"This…today. What you did in there?"

The kid only frowned. "I didn't do anything. That was lightsaber practice…just lightsaber practice."

Han shook his head. "If that was practice, what the hell would a duel be like?"

"With Vader?" Luke slowed to glance back once, eyes narrowed with resentment, his tone completely serious. "I'll let you know…soon."

He blinked rapidly, wiping the blood from his eye again, his lightsaber hilt still gripped in his other hand…and Han noticed, as Luke held his hand out for a second to look at the blood, that it was still shaking.

He scanned his own shocked thoughts, groping for a subject to get the kid talking and ease him down. "You practice every day, don't you?" He couldn't count the times he'd seen the kid head out of the apartment dressed in similar clothes to those he wore now, the ever-present Indo shadowing him.

"Pretty much. But I've gone down to five days a week…which I'm guessing is why Palpatine organized this little reminder today."

"So who taught you?"

Luke shrugged again, seeming reluctant, as if he were trying hard to play the whole thing down. "I started learning when I was eight, using a shoto—a short blade. Palpatine taught me for the first three years. He would teach me a new move every week, and Force help me if I hadn't mastered it within a month."

"Who taught you after that?" Han asked, already knowing from all that Gorn had said, about Vader's punishing involvement.

But as ever the kid wouldn't be drawn, glossing over whatever he didn't want to talk about. "Still Palpatine, mostly…and always with a live blade. I never used a practice blade—he wouldn't let me." Luke grinned briefly. "I still have the nicks and slices and burns on my arms and ankles to prove it."

"You ever duel with Palpatine?"

"Only when I was very young. Mostly it was lessons. Katas, forms—combat styles. Practice lessons were hours long—full days, sometimes, when he'd make me repeat the same move again and again and again until he thought I had it. I remember once, when I'd started to learn the Ataro Form, I had to do a move which was a somersault and part-twist at the same time, so you land facing a different direction, and I was just too young—I didn't have the muscle mass yet to do it. So Palpatine took my saber off me and stood there, and every time I did it, he put a hand to the small of my back to push up and give me enough height to make the move." The kid smiled at the memory as he wiped again at the cut above his eye. "I remember, I was terrified that I'd kick him in the somersault…at first. But he just kept on saying _'Again. Again,'_ until I was so dizzy and so exhausted that I didn't even consider it any more. I had to stop three times to be sick, and Palpatine would wait until I had been, then call me back immediately, to do it again."

"How old were you?"

"I don't remember…ten, eleven maybe. Not strong enough to do the move on my own…so probably ten. Back then, most of the time I was pretty much half-starv…" Luke broke off with a dismissive tilt of his head, and Han bit back the desire to push him on it, which he knew would only make the kid clam up entirely. "But there were no excuses—not with Palpatine. Too young, too light, too tired…didn't matter. You kept going until he thought you'd learned the move."

Luke turned just slightly, giving Han a knowing look. "You think he was too harsh, but you're wrong. Because my Master pushed me, I faced Darth Vader and walked away today… Because of my Master, I'll walk away from the real duel with him one day, too."

Han said nothing, and Luke looked ahead again as they walked, pressing the palm of his hand to the wound above his eye. "You reach a kind of plateau when you practice that much in a single session, anyway, where you go into autopilot and you can just keep going. Your body starts burning muscles for fuel, and you can keep going pretty much until your joints give out. Then when you sleep, exhausted, the moves are still playing through your head, like you're floating; like your body's still doing them. That day, I remember that by the time Indo had arrived and Palpatine had left, I was trembling uncontrollably from the exertion. So hard that I couldn't stop. Indo made me sit on the floor, then lay down until he'd called the medic. But two or three days, and you're fine. I'll always know that—that no matter how low you drop physically, no matter how exhausted you are and how much you hurt, you can recover enough in two days to start moving about again. In three, you can start to exercise. Five, and it's like it never happened." He glanced briefly to Han. "That was a lesson too—a valuable one."

He told all this with a kind of contentment which left Han mystified…but then this was probably the nearest that Palpatine had ever come to giving the kid some kind of affection or attention. Maybe it was the nearest that anyone had come in years. Everybody tiptoed through these halls and around Palpatine's directives, spoken and unspoken. Nobody touched the kid—no one got close…and all the time, the old man kept on teaching his 'lessons.'

Luke swiped again at the cut over his eye as he spoke, his calm face all the more surreal for being so badly battered. The skin about the deep wound was still swelling, opening it up further, the cut a perfect half-circle which described exactly the cowl of Vader's saber hilt.

"Let me see that." Han stopped but Luke, as ever, brushed the concern away, barely slowing.

"It's fine."

"It needs sutures."

"It's fine. Head wounds always bleed a lot."

Something contracted inside Han's chest at that, but he shook it away, stepping quickly forward to reach out and grab the kid's shoulder from behind—

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The blow came from nowhere and everywhere and seemed to strike the whole of Han's body at once, knocking the air from his lungs and whiting out his vision. When his senses caught up with the shock, he realized that he was half-huddled against the corridor's far wall five paces back, still gasping for breath, every muscle wired taut like a live charge had shot through him.

Opposite him the kid was backed to the other wall, eyes wide, one hand still held out before him as he stared at Han, breathing rapidly. Slowly, as Luke lowered his hand, realization percolated through Han's addled brain that it was the kid who had done this, with the Force.

"Don't…don't ever touch me," Luke said hoarsely at last.

With his adrenaline rushing, it would have been easy for Han to start yelling…but memories flashed of the many times that even Indo had reached for the kid without ever actually making contact. And with Luke's reaction when Vader had grabbed him—and why—still fresh in Han's mind, he realized with a flare of regret just exactly what had driven the kid's reaction.

"Hells, I'm sorry, Luke. I didn't m…"

"I know, I just…don't touch me, that's all."

"I understand…" Han nodded somberly as he straightened. "But you gotta know that not everyone's gonna…" Han slowed, not sure what to say, but the kid had already turned to stride away. "Luke, c'mon…"

"Why? I don't need some empty reassurance." He was instantly on the offensive, probably more angry at himself for overreacting than he was at Han.

They walked on in silence across one of the wide cupolas which marked every crossroad, tall slabs of dressed stone looming up into the dark shadows of a curved dome overhead. Luke swiped at the open wound above his eye again, cursing under his breath.

"Would you just go to the medicenter and get it sutured?" Han said at last. "After the last coupla' hours, don't even try to tell me you're scared."

"The medic gets on my nerves," Luke admitted at last.

"That's it? Everybody gets on your nerves."

"He does particularly."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty damn sure that you get on his, too." Luke looked to him, surprised, and Han shrugged, knowing that the kid responded better to this than to any amount of concern. "I'm going with the odds."

Luke glanced away, but there was a half-smile on his face as he slowed to a stop, so Han tried one last time.

"C'mon, I'll go with you."

"Thanks, but I'm capable of making it there and back on my own."

"Does that mean you're actually going to go, or just that you don't want me following you to make sure you go?"

"You're starting to sound depressingly like Indo," Luke jibed, humor returning.

"Hey, there's no need to get nasty, Junior." Han smiled. "And—just to clarify—if you do go…are you actually coming back? I'm talkin' about tonight. Y'know, in reasonable time."

"Of course."

"To the apartment?" Han pushed.

"Whatever," Luke said, then grinned. "Yes, I'm coming back—seriously, you think I'd go out looking like this?"

"Sure you don't want some company?"

"I don't need anybody to hold my hand," Luke said dryly.

Han backed up a step, lifting his hands away. "Hey, I wasn't offering—not with you."

Luke sighed, glancing down the side corridor which Han knew would take him out onto one of the main hubs and so towards the medicenter. He lifted his hand to his still-bleeding temple, trying one last time. "It'll stop on its own eventually."

Han rolled his eyes. "Would you just get the damn sutures!"

"Fine…" The kid turned about and set off towards the hub, shouting over his back at Han, "And don't follow me!"

"I hadn't even thought about it," Han lied, adding before the kid could answer, "I was just gonna watch you on security lenses."

Luke's voice came back faintly as he rounded the corner, disappearing from sight. "Sounding like Indo again…"

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Han arrived alone back at the apartment, listening to his own footfalls echo down the dark main corridor. Seeing no Gorn in the staffroom, he wandered through the apartment in search of anyone, room on pristine room empty, none of them used by the kid save the library, where he studied hour on hour, day on day, under Indo's watchful eye. Han stopped in there, expecting to see Indo, but it too was empty, still scattered with the assortment of datapads and holo-projectors that the kid would probably shortly be expected to spend endless hours staring at. Eight to eight every day, just as Gorn had said, if Luke wasn't on some kind of assignment. No wonder the kid occasionally sneaked out…or that he'd grab the Ubiqtorate uniform with both hands, seeing it as a way to get out of here.

He walked into the Red Room and down the cold grandeur of the empty enfilade, high walls of carved ebony making even these vast chambers seem grimly claustrophobic. Seeing no one, he stopped at the far end and stared at his own reflection in the mirrored wall…and stared…

He'd never once been inside—not once.

Gorn's words to Han, when he'd asked what lay beyond the doors, whispered temptingly:

"_Luke's in there. That room's never changed, not since the day he arrived here—except the walls, of course."_

He really shouldn't… He really, _really_ shouldn't…

Glancing back just once to the deserted apartment behind him, Han patted lightly at the cylinders in his breast pocket, aware that the security transmitters would allow him clearance. Then he turned to the mirrored wall and walked hesitantly forward. With that quiet snick, the lock released and the doors slid open…and Han walked into the gloom of the kid's private rooms.

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He slowed in the darkness, as the mercury-glass doors slid silently closed behind him. It took long seconds for his eyes to become used to the low light, but he felt somehow reluctant to activate the light panel, aware that he shouldn't be here.

As it had been the first time he'd had that tantelizing glimpse of it months earlier, there was practically nothing in the first room. It was big and austere, like all rooms here in the Imperial Palace, what little furniture it had barely visible in the murky darkness. What it did have, of course, was the ever-present art which arrived at regular intervals to be hung in every room in the otherwise sombre apartment. In here it covered every wall, a mix of figurative and expressive, some little more than loose charcoal sketches, others bright flares of color in the room's darkest shadows. Completely impersonal aside from that, it could have been any room in the apartment, only its lack of furniture setting it apart.

The second room was completely empty—completely. There was nothing at all visible, even in the far shadows, making Han's footsteps uncomfortably loud as they echoed about the vast space with nothing to soften them. He walked quickly through, heading for that final room, the memory of Gorn's words pushing him on.

"_Luke's in there. That room's never changed..."_

Han paused at the doorway, expectant—of what, he truly didn't know…

But the final room seemed abandoned, almost as bereft of furniture as the other two rooms had been, irregular shadows falling in crooked drifts across the bare walls in the near-darkness. The high bed had been turned on its side and apparently abandoned in the corner, its mattress toppled over onto the floor, blankets and all. The only other furniture was a single dresser, which stood slightly atilt to the wall, its drawers pulled free and discarded upside down here and there across the floor.

Han frowned, walking a few steps further in the gloom…and realized what he was looking at. The massive carved bed frame, pushed on its side almost against the corner, had formed a small enclosed hollow in which its blanket strewn mattress had been laid on the floor and curved up against the wall. Together they formed an awkward, sheltered hiding space in which to sleep.

His hand touched the shadowed wall as he leaned in…and he looked again. What he'd thought was a deep, irregular shadow from the window's darkened privacy filters and the upturned bed, stretching across the wall beside and above it and covering every inch of space in the half-hidden corner…were drawings. Scribbled sketches made almost one on top of the other until in places they'd become little more than a mass of indecipherable, dark scrawls. At points, the plaster itself had been scored and chipped at until its surface was broken away, then the bare plaster beneath had been drawn over again; in others it had been hacked away to the substructure in what seemed like a fit of fury.

"_Don't ever give him a stylus."_ Han remembered the house rule, quoted to him by Gorn on the first day here.

He crouched to look at the nearest images to the foot of the small sleeping space: tiny, fast drawings in fine black ink merged one into the next. Sketches of starships and faces in that same fast style, scratchy and swift, something almost frantic about them, as if the nib of the stylus never left the surface. Others were rougher, the lines thicker and less defined, obviously drawn with whatever stylus had been available.

Staring in fascination, Han realized that he recognized some of the hastily drawn faces; the lieutenant commander from Sinto Base—what was his name? He was sketched with narrowed eyes as he stood by the cantankerous base commander, his hawk-nose and loose lips easy to identify. Not much further down the wall was the agent they'd been sent to pick up, sat on a chair with his head in his hands, two stormtroopers behind him…and Gorn! Gorn was sketched glancing sideways, his boyish features arranged in that game but perpetually bemused expression that epitomised his whole attitude to life. The image was half drawn-over by a fine-line rendition of the palace only part-built, half its height covered in open scaffold. Another drawing bled into that one, dark and heavy; of Vader, the Imperial officer beside him scowling at something unseen. Below that was a small, fast sketch of another officer, this one leaning forward to shout at a stormtrooper, his chin jutting, one finger jabbing the stormtrooper's chest plate as the trooper leaned back slightly in response. Beside that was something Han had never seen: Indo smiling, that same dry look still in his eye, lined features etched in fine cross-hatch. Half-obscured and over-sketched was the Death Star, quickly rendered but instantly recognizable. To the side of that was a heavily drawn image of the Emperor's face, pale eyes glaring in condemnation, the black fabric of his hood scratched over and over obsessively to blacken it. A dark-haired man of regal bearing who looked a little like Indo, but with wider, more open features, was next to a larger sketch of a woman with a sweet, oval face and kind eyes, her hair set in an intricate halo of plaits...and on, and on...

About and between them were drifts of TIEs mid-flight, as well as Star Destroyers, speeders, shuttles…endless pictures all clearly done from memory; a resting Red Guard, sat awkwardly on the floor to avoid creasing his gowns, probably thinking he was unseen, his head nodding forward, his helmet beside him. Each one drawn in that same fast manner, sometimes rendered one over the other so that they were hardly even decipherable any more. Han glanced up, realizing that this wall was of a slightly different colour to those in the other rooms, the plaster detail in the coving having lost its sharp edge, so many times had it been painted over.

"…_some kid desperately struggling to make sense of the chaos whilst everyone around him looks the other way or ignores it…or worse, just paints over it like it's not even there. Like it'll just go away. But if it doesn't that's okay, 'cos we've always got more paint."_

How many times had the kid covered these walls, and they'd come in here, probably at Indo's order when Luke was elsewhere, and painted over the mass of sketched drawings? Han stood, backing up to glance about in realization…because the room's irregular, inky shadows made sense now. They were sketches, all of them—hundreds. Endless scribbles which continued over the polished wooden floor about the corner, and in broken drifts across the bare walls and the high side of the bed that faced in towards the skewed mattress, laid on bare boards…

Han remembered distinctly the meeting when the kid had stolen a stylus and had spent the entire time drawing on his hands—remembered seeing the fine-line sketches Luke had done on his palm, of the Moffs who'd sat opposite him. Remembered Indo telling him to wash it off. Remembered the broken memory chips in the library, that the kid had shattered to get an edge sharp enough to scribe a woman's face into the table's polished surface. Remembered the eyes drawn on the stone floor of the balcony with the ash from a spice stick…

And now, looking, he started seeing the faces—the same two faces, over and over: the dark-haired man and the oval-faced woman, drawn and redrawn and scribbled over and drawn again. And he started to see their expressions, eyes half-closed or wide in a vivid glare; mouths open in silent shouts, lips pulled back from their teeth as they yelled…over and over and over again. It was these sketches, and these alone, which were hacked and scoured away, their features obscured to near-unrecognizeable.

Han backed up another step in the gloom to look along the wall beside him, where the fine-line sketches were scribbled and overdrawn on every space between kneeling and standing height. His heel touched the corner of one of the dresser's drawers, abandoned upside-down…and that surface too had been covered, the same dark-haired man and oval-faced woman repeated among the drawings, over and over, sometimes scribbled out deeply enough to score the wood, with—

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"Happy now?"

Han jumped, spinning about in shock. Indo stood in the doorway, straight-backed and hard faced.

"I was just…" Han trailed off. "What the hell is all this?"

"And just exactly what business is it of yours, Lieutenant Solo?"

"Is this Luke—did he do all this?"

"I will say it again: what business is it of yours, Lieutenant Solo?"

"I just… I didn't know he was this…messed up."

"You are in error, Lieutenant Solo." Indo's voice was permasteel. "There is nothing wrong with Luke, and if I once find out that you have spoken…"

"Hey, maybe if someone actually spoke out about stuff around here, he could get some help!"

"He doesn't need any help. If you wish to help him, then keep your mouth closed and your opinions to yourself."

Han looked back to the endlessly, obsessively scribbled walls—to the oval-faced woman whose eyes were wide as she shouted out. "This is serious."

"Thank you for your professional opinion, Lieutenant Solo—and what would you suggest? Think very carefully before you answer, because believe me, if you give any indication whatsoever that Luke is in any way less than capable, you will have every enemy and social climber in the palace and the military singling him out to see if they can break him or use him. Or perhaps you intend to tell the Emperor—and how exactly do you think that conversation will go?"

"There must be something…"

"There is, and I do it every single day. I hold him together, until such a time that he's able to stand alone."

"This isn't helping him! Painting over it isn't helping him, it's just covering it up."

"No, helping him would be to remove him from this environment. To remove him from the attentions of both the Emperor and Vader. It is also completely impossible. It will never happen—not now, not ever. He's just going to have to learn to live with that."

"Well, that's great," Han growled sarcastically. "That's perfect, then."

"Life is seldom perfect, Lieutenant," Indo said dryly. "We do what we can, and that is all that we can do. Luke is in an unprecedented position…my job here—and yours—is to ensure that he takes full advantage of that. Lesser considerations must be dismissed in pursuit of the greater goal."

Han rolled his head to glare at Indo, who sighed, giving just an increment as he lowered his voice.

"You have no concept of anything that's going on here."

"You know people keep tellin' me that, but no one actually tries to make it any clearer."

"People assume—erroneously, apparently—that you would have worked it out for yourself by now." Indo stared, but Han wasn't biting. Eventually, the Viscount glanced away, eyes tracing the drifts of compulsive drawings, and he loosened just slightly. "You have to understand the position he's in—the position he's been in for years now. Palpatine makes his life very, very difficult, I'm not blind to that."

"No? 'Cos you sure as hell act like it—in fact from where I'm standing, you seem to add to it."

Indo didn't deign to validate that with a reply. Instead he stepped closer to study one of the drawings: Palpatine, his features hidden by a hood, but his eyes—those yellow eyes Han knew so well—seemed to glare brightly in the darkly shaded sketch. Staring, Indo continued as if Han hadn't spoken. "But understand that if something were to happen to the Emperor, it would effectively sign Luke's death-warrant at Vader's hands. There's something quite clearly between them, I think—aside from Luke being a threat to Vader's position as the Emperor's second-in-command. Believe me when I tell you that the Emperor's existence is the only thing which is keeping Luke alive."

"Something else…like what?"

"Old blood." Indo's eyes had moved to a sketch of Vader, the facets of his helmet instantly recognizable. He hadn't needed to look far; they were scattered everywhere, the pose always aggressive, openly hostile. "Vader's hated the boy since he first arrived here—has gone out of his way to make life as uncomfortable as possible for Luke. And the Emperor has never given him protection from such things—if he never afforded the boy safeguards from himself, then he certainly wasn't going to do it from others." Indo paused and glanced briefly to Han, as if he felt he'd already said too much. But Han remained silent, and after looking to the scribbled and defaced walls for long moments, Indo continued. "Luke was just seven when he arrived here. I spoke to him that very first night. I didn't speak to him again until he was nearly eleven, when the Emperor decided that it was time to…reintegrate him into society, and I was tasked to do that. By then, he was…changed. Completely uncommunicative. If you had seen him then, just five years ago, compared to what he is now…he's come so very far. But at the time, he would sit for hours and do this. If I left him for a day, he would sit in silence and cover every surface in a room, no discrimination between the surfaces he was drawing on. The walls, the floor, the furniture, it didn't matter. He never asked for food or water, no matter how long I left him, though he took both whenever they were offered…and he drew. Constantly. I took the stylus from him, and he simply sat on the floor and chewed his nails…and…eventually, when he chewed them so much that they bled, he drew with them. I gave him back a stylus. I gave him flimsiplast to draw on, for a while. I gave him time. And slowly, as he became more communicative and more immersed in reality, his inclination faded…somewhat."

Han glanced to the overpainted walls. "What happens when you paint over it?"

"Nothing. He simply starts again as if nothing has changed." Indo stared at the massed drawings, no emotion in his face or the tone of his voice. "Let me give you a little instance of his life growing up here, Lieutenant. The lightsaber _practice _that you saw today; Luke had already been taught to use the lightsaber when he came to me at the age of eleven, and both Palpatine and, grudgingly and under order, Lord Vader continued to instruct him. I always knew which sessions Vader had taught. Palpatine pushed him to the very edge, of course—he'd have torn ligaments, strains, sprains, the odd broken finger or the like—but Vader just used them as an excuse to pummel the boy, as young as he was. Those were the sessions where I got called to the exercise hall because of Luke's injuries…or just as often, to the medicenter. Those were the ones which needed sutures and splints.

"But little boys grow up fast, and they learn fast, if they have to. Last year it finally got to serious blows, and they both needed considerable medical attention after one particular session. When Luke was released from the medicenter, he was summoned by Palpatine…who put him back in there for insubordination. I believe Lord Vader too was reprimanded. Vader's chastisement was, you understand, punishment for exceeding the Emperor's mandate, not for the actions themselves. And it has, as you likely saw, dissuaded neither of them… They've just learned to be a little more circumspect. Lieutenant Commander Gorn tells me that for a while now, there have been wagers going on in the palace as to which of the two will lose a limb first."

"He's just a kid."

"He's also the only person who has any chance of standing against Vader's uncontested position as the Emperor's second-in-command one day, and Vader knows it. When he was young, Luke was a minor annoyance—now he's a genuine threat. He's not yet capable of standing against Vader, but every year his abilities are increasing, and Luke's of an age now where Vader knows that every year he leaves him alive, the boy becomes more of that threat. So you see, he's living on borrowed time, caught between Palpatine who makes his life hell, and Lord Vader, who will take it away entirely at the very first opportunity."

"But he's under Palpatine's protection, right?"

The Viscount shrugged. "After a fashion, insofar as the Emperor would always chastise Vader for publicly going against his desire to keep the boy whose training he has personally supervised, I think. But understand: he is not the boy's protector here. He causes Luke easily as much grief as Vader does." Indo's eyes held firm on Han, and volumes were spoken where words were unsaid. "The difference is that Luke tolerates it without question, because he has lived with Palpatine's disposition practically all his life—this is all that he knows. And the Emperor can be most…persuasive. What you see when you see Luke's absolute loyalty to the Emperor is, I assure you, genuine...as it should be."

Han frowned, pulled in, his own anger subsiding.

The Viscount stared at him for several seconds, then his gray eyes flicked away. "The power balance has remained reasonably constant here for many years, but Luke's coming of age, and everyone can feel that shift. Years invested in teaching and training him are beginning to pay off as Luke gains the status I always intended for him...but there is a price—though it's one worth paying. Because the higher his standing, the more of a threat he becomes to Vader. That is unavoidable. The fact of the situation is that Luke must learn to defend himself, because he can't appease Vader. There's nothing he can do to diffuse the threat that he himself represents simply by existing. I'm sure you saw yourself that Luke just barely defers to Vader now, and that only because of the Emperor's command. A once-distant risk is becoming a far more immediate threat, and Lord Vader doesn't take well to those. After nine years of withstanding the brunt of Vader's anger, even if Luke could back down—which I don't think he would because it isn't in his nature—it's not an option. Nor would I ask him to…because he has to fight, to survive here. He always has. He's no more safe today than the day he arrived. The Emperor places ever more pressure and expectations on Luke to excel in the military sphere and, given his training, Luke is capable of doing so…but every achievement makes him a greater threat to Lord Vader. So yes, he has had to grow up quickly, under immense pressure, and yes, as hard as it seems, I will continue to push him to do so. Think what you will of me, Lieutenant Solo; I have no regrets as to my actions. If you had one iota of intelligence, you would be doing the same."

Han waited, and the Viscount was happy to oblige, his dry voice as unsympathetic as ever. "Like it or not, aware of it or not, you've cast your lot with a possible contender to Lord Vader's position here, Lieutenant. And in doing so, you've made an enemy of a very powerful and dangerous man. As much as everyone else here, your life is now dependant on the daily actions of a sixteen-year-old boy."

Indo turned and walked smoothly from the darkened room, pausing in the sliver of light from the shuttered windows beyond. "Welcome to the palace, Lieutenant Solo."

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As usual, when you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my own website, where there's a little extra at the end of each one. There's a link to it on my bio page above my avatar (just click on my name at the top of this page to get to my bio page), or the address is all the three w's ". alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!) - hope you'll enjoy!

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	9. Chapter 9

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**CHAPTER NINE**

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The early morning light glared in through towering stretches of faceted, leaded glass which lined the cavernous corridor towards the military briefing rooms in the main ziggurat, making Han flinch at the reflected light from polished floors. Beside him, sporting seven sutures above his eye to go with numerous other scuffs and scratches which had taken the night to develop, the kid walked with his eyes closed, keeping an unerringly straight line. And walking just before them, straight-backed as ever, Indo was probably not even deigning to squint. They'd been walking for about two minutes now down this same corridor, with the low sun flashing between square columns. Sun, shade, sun, shade…even without the late visit he'd made to the Blue Lekku last night to drink himself into oblivion, it was starting to give Han a headache.

Not that it had helped; he hadn't slept much anyway, thoughts going constantly back to the kid's room, devoid of any furnishings, the bed on its side and pushed to the wall to create that tiny, protected space… To the chaotic jumble of massed drawings, scratched with obsessive speed on every surface, one over the other…

To Gorn's knowing words, weeks earlier. "_Everyone around him looks the other way or ignores it…"_

To Indo's iron will. "_What business is it of yours, Lieutenant Solo?"_

And that was true. But somebody had to…to what?

"_What business is it of yours, Lieutenant Solo?"_

Seriously, what could he do, here?

"_Everyone around him looks the other way or ignores it…or worse, just paints over it like it's not even there. Like it'll just go away. But if it doesn't that's okay—'cos we've always got more paint."_

"_I will say it again: what business is it of yours, Lieutenant Solo?"_

_._

"You're staring at me." The kid's words, spoken without turning, pulled Han from his reverie.

"Just wondering why you're not in your uniform today," Han avoided.

"No, you're not." Luke shrugged, seeming willing to let the moment pass without closer examination. "Different Moffs today—further down the scale, which is why the Emperor isn't attending. Even the ones that Palpatine trusts absolutely mostly think I'm just Ubiqtorate. I don't really wear the uniform that much anyway—just for the occasional job, when it helps put you in command. Generally I just…"

"Sneak by?"

Luke smiled, instantly a kid again, despite the sutures and the bruises. "Pretty much. Most people here think I'm just some leftover from a momentary aberration when Palpatine actually tried to do the right thing and became my guardian. When…when my parents died."

He always tripped over that, Han had noticed—but then he'd already admitted that his father was a Jedi named Kenobi, and that Kenobi was still alive, so exactly who had died—who the kid chose to call his parents, knowing his real father was still alive, was a mystery. "Who were they?"

Before them, Viscount Indo slowed to speak to another aide, and the kid stopped without getting any closer. He said nothing for a few moments, his eyes flicking briefly to the civilian aide who spoke in hushed tones to Indo without ever looking to Luke. Taking another casual half step back as he turned to Han, Luke said quietly, "See that man? Ubiqtorate."

Han glanced quickly to the aide. "Who, the guy in the brown suit?"

The kid didn't turn, his back still to the aide. "It's a black suit with brown flecks and a black trim…and a light tan stand-collared shirt, with black boots that have two buckles at the heel."

"Which side's his hair parted?" Han joked.

"It's not."

Han glanced over; kid was right!

"How do you know he's Ubiqtorate?"

"I've seen him at the Hub."

"In uniform?"

"No."

Han shrugged. "Maybe he was there for another reason."

The kid laughed lightly. "Right, 'cos we do let people just wander round in there."

"So how do you Ubiqtorate guys recognize each other without a daily uniform then—you have some kinda secret handshake or something?"

The kid's face changed, his grin disarmingly open. "Actually we do…do you want me to teach it to you?"

He turned full-on to Han, looking solemnly up, since he was barely more than shoulder height to him. "You keep your third finger bent in, see, so that the other man can feel it against the palm of his hand, and he does the same…"

Luke stretched out his hand as if to shake, and Han did the same, his third finger bent in. The kid took his hand and leaned closer, tone conspiratorial.

"Then you lean in…" Han leaned down as Luke's voice lowered. "And you whisper…sucker."

Han sprung straight and wrenched his hand back. "Ha, ha, very funny," he deadpanned. He set forward again at a brisk pace, so that Luke had to almost run to keep up.

"You should have seen your face…it was so serious!"

"Yeah, whatever."

"Sorry." Luke laughed, his open amusement making him seem suddenly very boyish as he plucked at Han's sleeve, the act casually familiar. "I'm sorry, I'll show it to you for real this time."

"Yeah, I don't fall for the same gag twice."

"Seriously, I will!"

With the Ubiqtorate aide gone—if he ever was Ubiqtorate; Han was beginning to wonder now whether he'd just been a convenient distraction—they walked the endless corridors in this fashion, a step behind the strait-laced Indo, Han and the kid a flurry of noise and energy in the dour halls whose towering walls cowed all to silence. Han remained purse-lipped as Luke offered ever more elaborate promises, but it was good-natured on both their parts, Han's game crabbiness only encouraging the kid more. Indo glanced back twice, and twice, the kid lowered his voice a notch without even seeming to realize.

Han watched Indo from the corner of his eye, remembering his challenge of last night—that what business was it of Han's…what could he possibly do, here? Well, he could damn well do this, Han realized. He could do the one thing that nobody else seemed willing to do. He could make a noise in this drab, oppressive place—and he could let the kid do the same.

He wasn't stupid. The Viscount wanted him out of the way because he was ruining all those little routines that Indo had set the kid's life to for years now. And maybe he did need them, but he also needed…he just needed to live a little. To act his age once in a while, and maybe realize that there was more to life than these dismal halls.

By the time it happened, Luke had taken to walking backwards in front of Han, grinning widely, completely at ease.

"I will, honestly…I'll show you!"

"Nope."

"Seriously! Look at this face—how could you not trust it?"

.

The next second Luke let out a gasp as if he'd been stuck.

Han stared as the kid staggered back a half-step before his legs went out from under him and he dropped, hunching over into to a kneeling crouch, hand to his forehead.

Indo was already stooping down with the kid, concerned but not worried. "Luke, what happened?"

"Big," Luke gasped, "something big."

Indo glanced about him. "Here…now?"

"No, far away. Death. Deaths…many. Too many. Everything."

"Everything?"

"What the hell's going on!" Han demanded. The kid was pale, breaths coming rough, his eyes tracking rapidly without focus, as if looking at something only he could see.

Indo glanced up only to glare briefly at Han as Luke closed his eyes in concentration. For long seconds he remained still, as if listening…

Then suddenly he was trying to stand, staggering back a step. Indo reached out, almost taking his arm, but even now not quite daring to do so. The kid stared for long seconds without really seeing, then wheeled about to walk unsteadily back the way they'd come.

"Luke, where are you going?" Indo set off after him immediately.

"Back," Luke said hastily. "I need to go back."

"To the apartment? The meeting starts in less than…"

"Cancelled."

"By whom?"

"The Emperor. He'll cancel it. He'll've sensed it too, whatever it was."

"Then he'll want to speak to you."

The kid shook his head. "I have to go back…I need to…" He looked to Han. "I can't see him like this—not like this."

Han frowned. "Like what? What the hell is going on?"

The comlink on Indo's belt sounded, wheeling the kid about as Indo lifted it free.

"It's the Emperor's offices—Pestage," Indo identified, looking to the comlink. Luke stared, anxious and apprehensive.

When Indo answered, his voice was a model of unflustered calm.

Pestage didn't bother with informalities—when you were that far up the chain of command, you didn't need to. "Do you have the boy with you?"

"I'm with Lieutenant Commander Antilles, yes."

"The Emperor commands his presence in the Cabinet—immediately."

"Of course. We can…" Indo didn't get a chance to finish before the line went dead.

Luke was still pale, one step short of outright panic. "I need to go back first…"

"You can't, you know that." Indo said firmly.

"I need spice," the kid hissed quietly.

"No, you'll be fine."

"I can't go, not like this!"

Indo stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "You cannot go into the Emperor's presence having smoked spice, you know that. And we have to go right now."

Luke retreated another step. "I can't!"

"Go now, and perhaps afterwards..."

"Afterwards is too late."

"Luke…" Indo's voice was permasteel—but composed still, as he set slowly forward towards Luke, hand out in that same corralling gesture he used so often without ever touching the kid, forcing him to begin walking. "We have to go _right now_."

The rest of the way was traversed like this, with Indo quiet but insistent and the kid near-panicking, though Han had seen him walk into dozens of meetings with the Emperor, always composed, even if he knew he was in trouble. But he quietened eventually, so that by the time they reached the outer hall to the Cabinet, he was resigned.

Which was just as well, because that was as far as Han and Indo got.

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Luke had known that he would be summoned alone to the Emperor's presence for this. Still, it was a struggle of mind over matter to make himself walk forward when the towering doors to the Cabinet were opened. He entered alone as ordered, even Pestage remaining in the outer hall, tense and harassed, surrounded by fraught minions who had probably been summarily dismissed by the Emperor just minutes earlier, with no idea as to why.

He had always hated the Cabinet. Cold and dark, with vast stone slabs of mirror-polished granite reflecting endlessly back against each other between perfect rows of squared columns and deeply shadowed apses. Huge cut glass orbs of dark and smoky tones were suspended from the ceiling in vast numbers, casting muted light into deep shadows. No windows here; no daylight allowed to mar the sober ascetic of the immense space. It had always felt to Luke like a mausoleum.

Palpatine strode forward, his cane forgotten, and Luke slowed, arms lifting slightly in self-defense, uncertain what his Master would do. He backed up involuntarily a few paces as Palpatine closed, his hand lifting to snake about Luke's neck to hold him still.

"What happened!" The demand echoed about the stark severity of the Spartan chamber.

"I don't know—"

"Then _look_! You haven't searched yet?"

"You commanded me never t…"

A quick cuff across his face silenced him, catching painfully on the sutures. "Now—look now. Tell me what you see."

Luke brought his head down, closing his eyes and ignoring the throb of the sutures as he summoned the concentration to immerse himself in the Force, unsettled by his Master's close presence and short temper.

Since the age of seven, he had done this at his Master's command. It had been a trial rather than a training, with few explanations and many demands. He had not so much found the Force as his Master had taken a hold of his consciousness and thrown him in, letting him flounder amid shouted commands and directives, dragging him this way and that in the bewildering maelstrom which had no place in a child's knowledge of the galaxy.

But he'd learned. He'd adapted—children did. He'd incorporated it into his concept of the universe and of himself, accepting without question the command that he must never use it save to his Master's advantage, nor let others know of his ability unnecessarily, not comprehending of its relevance at the time. Not knowing what he was.

By the age of eleven, he understood—had been instructed by his Master that there were others, named Jedi, who chose a weaker path. Others who, it seemed to Luke, had made a choice, a conscious decision as to which path to take. His had been ordained by his Master. That was simply the way it was.

And every day, as his Master had demanded ever more of him, his abilities, his connection, had refined. Had deepened.

Luke knew, now; knew that his own connection surpassed his Master's. He would never say so, of course, never declare such dangerous knowledge aloud. The fact that Palpatine too knew the truth didn't make it a wise thing to remind him. But that was why he'd been summoned today—probably that was why he was alive at all, to be summoned. It was what his whole life, his every action, his very existence, had always been judged on.

But as practised and as potent as Luke's connection was, it had never been enough for his Master…and eventually, Luke had stopped trying. Had begun to live down to his Master's constant diatribe of criticism and dissatisfaction, rather than up to his ever increasing expectations. Because it made no difference anyway. The outcome was just the same, and he'd long since learned that it was easier to live his life as a disappointment to his Master than as a threat.

So he was cautious now, not to show too much beneath his Master's watchful eye. Too much, with no spice to take the edge off his connection and dexterity, would make his Master wary; make him ponder. Make him wish to underline his unassailable position as Master. Too much was a dangerous thing.

Too much spice was a dangerous thing too, of course; he'd learned that the hard way. It was a fine line, but he'd tread it for a long time now, so long that the spice's effect on Luke's connection had become the norm for his Master, only rarely and accidentally interspersed by his true abilities.

But with no choice today, he opened himself cautiously to the Force, felt it flood in even as he scattered himself within it. His Master always said that he must control it completely, command and direct it…but it was subtler than that, it had always seemed to Luke. A more complex mix of commitment and communication. One did not _read_ the Force…one scattered and _became_ it. It demanded no less of him, and he knew no other way.

"Look closer—find it," Palpatine murmured, pushing for more, as he always did. Always pushing…

Luke frowned, but briefly, settling further into an ever greater connection… The planet, the system, out…further and finer, the link not thinning with distance but escalating as he spread wider, the Force everywhere. The trail was easy to follow, like tracing a line of still-stabbing agony back to its original wound—and he knew all about pain.

"Silence," Luke whispered at last. "Stillness, where there should be life."

"Show me."

The hand about his neck slid up as his Master rested crooked fingers against his temple, and Luke recoiled just slightly, fighting to hold the connection as another consciousness climbed inside his thoughts. It always seemed to weigh him down when his Master tapped into the connection; to dilute and darken it. But he let him do this, locking away the knowledge that his Master couldn't come this far or this finely on his own. It made him no less dangerous.

"Where is this?" Palpatine demanded at last. "Show me."

Luke gave the knowledge without speaking, sharpening the connection to pull lucidity out of the abstract and turn intuitive awareness into images:_ two gas giants…asteroids… All changing—measurably, right now—all this is changing._

"Changing how?"

.

It was a blow of incredible power which ripped the very fabric of the universe.

Something huge and hideous screamed, like the galaxy itself cried out, and Luke flinched back from it, every muscle clenching, his breath locking in his throat. It came like a knife through his senses, broad and bloody and brutal, leaving him gasping…then slowly it faded, echoes making him twitch involuntarily as the shock-wave passed him and bled out into the universe. A dull ache remained in his bones though, the sense of something vast and terrible and irreversible which left his hands shaking, mind and soul numbed.

Somewhere in there, Palpatine had withdrawn his connection—by choice or by force, Luke didn't know—but he shook Luke briefly now, speaking words Luke couldn't make out. Reality leeched back in as he struggled for breath, unaware of how much or how little time had passed. He was knelt on the floor, hunched forward, one palm to the cold marble to steady himself. His Master crouched before him, already demanding.

"What was it!"

"Dying," Luke whispered hoarsely at last. "A planet dying."

"Planet?"

Luke nodded, eyes going down, his mind connecting facts and details and senses to create a whole. He understood now—knew exactly and completely what had happened, where, and how.

"Two gas giants and two asteroid belts, along with one sustainable planet—it's the Horuz system, so the planet must have been Despayre. Both events. The first razed the surface of life and ignited the atmosphere. The second shattered the tectonic plates and brought the molten core to the surface. The planet's dying—its remnants have moved from their orbit already. The whole system's in flux."

"Despayre!" Grasping hands fell away as Palpatine straightened in realization. "My Death Star!"

"The Death Star is safe…it did this, Master.."

"How? By order—was it done by order?"

Individual thoughts at this distance were completely impenetrable, but, "Yes…yes, I think so."

In the back of his awareness, Luke could still sense Despayre's death throes. He tried to close his thoughts to it, but the contact had been too intense and too visceral, so that it ached in the very center of his being, a dull, thudding pulse which ground ever slower.

Still crouched, his eyes skipped the dark, polished floor without seeing, trying to fathom the magnitude of this. They had been building the Death Star his whole life—it had been forever some distant specter, always under construction but never complete…

The Emperor rose, seeming far less affected than Luke, who still felt the intensity crawling beneath his skin, an overload of sensation which left him dazed and dizzy.

"Stand up."

Luke did so immediately, though the dim room spun and pitched. As he often did—as he'd been encouraged to do—he concentrated on his Master's presence in order to block out his attenuation to Despayre's violent cataclysm.

"You are uneasy," his Master observed. "Why?"

Luke glanced up, aware of calculating ocher eyes on him, and that to say he didn't know was not an option. "It was fired on without your permission, Master."

"It was a slave colony. Their purpose had been served."

"The Death Star wasn't the only Maw project under construction. They were experienced labor…and even that's immaterial. It was still done without your permission."

His Master's eyes narrowed, voice quiet. "Indeed… I will choose a means to remind Grand Moff Tarkin of that fact—at my convenience. But you…see what you can do—see how this power elevates you."

Luke lowered his head, aware only now of just how deeply he'd immersed himself in the Force to track the event back to their source, uneasy beneath that all-seeing gaze as his Master stood close, head tilted in studied consideration. The silence held taut…

"…will you always be my servant, child?" Palpatine's hand lifted to settle against Luke's cheek, and he knew the gesture was barely more than a threat. But in the end, despite everything, Luke knew that his reply would be the same…

"Always, Master."

Palpatine stared into his eyes and into his soul, and Luke flinched just slightly at the blunt assault, but he didn't fight it—he had nothing to hide.

Pale eyes narrowed to slits. "Would you die for me?"

Silence held for long seconds—no avoidance on Luke's part, but only a study of the truth in his answer.

He nodded, slowly and somberly. "I'd die for you…on your command."

It was the rarest, most valued of moments, as his ever critical Master's face split into a yellow-toothed grin which radiated genuine pleasure, and Luke basked in the knowledge of contented approval, his Master's rasping voice no more than a whisper.

"There, child…_there_ is your true worth."

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Han walked through the darkened enfilade in Luke's apartment without looking, heading to the Red Room. It was only the subtle bitter smell that slowed him. He glanced about, squinting in the gloom. "Luke?"

The brief, bright flare of a spice stick lit the far shadows, but Han still didn't see the kid until he was almost on him in the darkness. He was sitting on the floor against the corner, knees pulled up before him and arms resting on them, gazing silently out into nothing.

"Finally got your spice, huh?"

"Too little, too late."

"For what?"

"Never mind, doesn't matter." The kid took another long draw on the spice stick. Han stepped closer, and Luke tipped his head just slightly. "Don't sit down."

Han sat in the nearby chair anyway. "Don't want company, huh?"

"I'd figure that the fact that I'm sat in the corner of a dark room pretty much answers that question."

"What d'you need spice for now, anyway," Han continued regardless. "You did it. You faced him, and you did it without any props. You don't need it."

"Great, thanks, whatever," the kid deadpanned. "You can go now. Really."

"I'm serious, you did it."

Luke only shook his head in the darkness. "Oh, I did it alright. I did too much."

"Too much?"

"There can't be too much, huh? Can't have too much of a connection, too much control." Luke let out a quiet little laugh. "Just like everyone else. It doesn't even occur to you to ask _if_, does it?"

"If?"

"If I want it at all."

"I'm asking now," Han said without challenge.

Again Luke laughed dryly, drawing on the spice stick as he looked down. "Why would I want it?"

"That kind of power?" Han asked. "Who wouldn't want it?"

"To do what?" Luke asked. "It's an illusion. I have no power—nothing of consequence, anyway. I perform on command, and I'm of interest only whilst I do. But that's a fine line, because if I do too much…" The kid looked quickly away, seeming annoyed at himself as he shook his head. "Too much and that's when Palpatine starts thinking. Too much, and there's always a backlash—a need to clarify the order of things, and my position in it." He looked down, voice quiet. "So all that's left now is to wait. Like they say, no good deed goes unpunished…though around here, you can just change that to no deed at all." He lifted the spice stick to his lips, its tip burning bright in the near-darkness. "I'd be better off as some anonymous soldier—a pilot, a mechanic, anybody…at least I'd have a life of my own."

"Is that what you want," Han asked, "to be normal?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"I dunno," Han said noncommittally. "People generally want to push themselves, to excel."

"I tried that," the kid said flatly. "It wasn't enough, not for him. Nothing I do is ever enough."

"So you've stopped trying?"

"Stopped caring."

Only he hadn't, Han knew. And he wouldn't—not as long as he stayed here. Not as long as Palpatine had any kind of influence over him. That was the fact. He remembered that himself, the memories of his own childhood growing up under Shrike's heavy hand still sharp after all these years. Shrike, who'd run his own private little crime syndicate, manned by kids he'd picked up off the street—easy targets.

Han knew firsthand the cold, convoluted manipulations that made up that kind of coercive hold—maybe not to this degree, but still. They were subtle and they were many, and by now, they'd be deeply-entrenched. That vindictive mix of knocking down and isolating, then neglecting and discounting, until even maltreatment became a desirable thing, because it was _something_. Because the only being in the galaxy who had any bearing on your life, any significance, was actually paying attention to you. You'd withstand any level of maltreatment, from open contempt to violent eruptions, just to be acknowledged. You'd do anything, just to be seen.

Now, too many years of desperate desire to please a man who either chastised or ignored him were laying heavy on the kid's absolute knowledge that nothing he did would ever be enough. But some part of him still craved, still needed with all the fear and urgency of an orphaned child. It had kept Han with Shrike for years. Pushed him to do whatever was asked of him, desperate for even a shred of acknowledgment. He would have done anything for it. For that feeling, however tainted and grudging, that every child bereft of parents felt gnawing at the core of them: that he _belonged_.

And Palpatine—Palpatine took the prize, easily surpassing even Shrike's ruthless manipulations. He'd done a real job of convincing the kid that this harsh and pitiless life scraped at the edges of the old man's awareness, was the only option.

And every single day, Han found himself a little more sure…he'd be damned if he'd let him get away with it.

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Morning brought raw testimony of just how swiftly the kid's feared backlash would come down. News was buzzing that Operation Strike Fear was stumbling. Plans to trap the Rebels near Moralan in Hutt Space had failed spectacularly, coming close on the back of the _Invincible'_s fiasco at Sullust. At midday Luke was summoned, with Gorn's sources saying that Vader was already in attendance and the rest of the leading Operation Strike Fear commanders were assembling.

Han had expected it to be in the War Room, or in the magnificent grandeur of the Cabinet, but in fact it was set in a long, rectangular room of more human proportions, its deeply coffered ceilings perhaps only two or three times the height of a normal room. Its walls were lined with dark-panelled ebony inset with squares of rich mahogany burr, the tall doors treated exactly the same, so that when closed, they seemed to merge seamlessly with the walls, no exits visible. Despite the room's scale, the overall effect was heavy and oppressive, cloying in its complex mix of dark woods and intricate inlays, polished black chairs set in perfect rows about a long, glossy table. Wide windows were set to half-obscure, buffering the light to a shaded gloom, the stillness of the faultless room ominous.

Ahead of Han, Luke slowed as he entered the room and Han glanced across, following his gaze. Darth Vader stood at the far side, well away from the rest of the officers, who milled uneasily close to the doors, murmuring amongst themselves.

Vader turned slowly, black mask distorted by the play of shuttered light across its faceted surface, that hissing breath grating on Han's nerves already, his very presence unsettling. In front of Han the kid slowed to a stop before the long stretch of the polished desk, eyes narrowing as he lifted his chin a fraction.

"Luke?" Indo stepped around Han, one arm out to corral the kid sideways as he spoke quietly. "Now isn't the time." He started to the side, forcing the kid to do the same, though his eyes remained on Vader.

"Are these the Strike Fear Commanders?" Han asked, looking to break the kid's attention by glancing to the nervous brass. "Why is this meeting here—why isn't it in the War Room?"

The kid finally broke contact to look about the room, wary. "Something's going down." He glanced quickly across the assembled officers. "Stay away from Holigén."

"Holigén—why?"

"Moralan Was Holigén's operation. I called him on its flaws a few weeks ago but Palpatine let it play out," the kid murmured. "It should never have…"

Any further explanation Luke might have given was instantly lost as the double-doors opened and two Red Guard entered to stand either side, signalling the entrance of the Emperor. He walked slowly to the head of the table as the officers rushed to stand behind chairs, forced then to wait until the Emperor had made his way forward, leaning heavily on his black cane, his presence reducing the room to hushed tension.

He sat on the ornately carved chair to the head of the table, and Vader stepped forward to stand just behind and to his right, to view the increasingly nervous Generals.

For a moment, the heavy cowl that Palpatine wore tilted in their direction, and Han got a glimpse of those sulphurous yellow eyes as they locked on the kid.

"Here." The Emperor pointed one spindly finger to the left of his seat, and Luke moved without hesitation to walk the length of the silent room, taking up position exactly where Palpatine had pointed.

Stood with the other aides against the wall to the rear of the room, Han found himself frowning as the kid walked by, not liking the tone of Palpatine's command, uttered with such casual, presumptive demand.

Silence held for long seconds as the Emperor studied his steepled fingers, the wait excruciating. When he spoke, his always gravelly tones grated with restrained menace. "I shall not keep you here long…you have a great deal to retrieve. I would, however, like to call to account exactly what has happened. Sit."

The assembled officers rushed to comply, and Han felt, for once, a bone-deep relief that he wasn't among them.

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Standing behind and to the side of the Emperor, Vader didn't bother to listen as the breakdowns and the accusations began, all those present scrabbling to lay the blame elsewhere as quickly and decisively as possible. It was clear where the responsibility would eventually fall. instead he glanced to the boy, who stood at the Emperor's left hand, staring off to the middle distance with every bit as little interest in the rush to avoid accountability as he himself had.

Aware of Vader's eyes on him, the boy turned just slightly, the sutures above his eye still looking raw and tender, and Vader smiled just slightly beneath his mask, knowing that he would sense this. Every time he looked to the boy, he saw Kenobi. Saw his old Jedi Master's machinations. His lies. _"You were like a brother to me, Anakin!"_

It was surely fitting that Vader took care of his_ brother's _son in the same manner than Kenobi had sought to take care of him…and soon, now. Vader hadn't failed to observe the changing dynamics in his most recent duel with the boy; how much he had gained in strength and speed. How willing he was to put that to the test. Almost a man now, and more dangerous by the day. Less predictable…save in his absolute loyalty to his Master; Palpatine had invested a great deal over the years in ensuring that. Which made the boy more dangerous still…because as the years passed, Vader found himself ever less willing to bow to the Sith Master's demands. Ever less sure of his Emperor's right to rule.

But now, if he chose to face his Master down, he faced _two_ Sith, not one. And there was nothing more useful to Palpatine and more problematic to Vader than an advocate willing to lay down his life in defense of his Master. Which the boy would be, Vader was sure of that. Palpatine had trained and molded his little insurance policy for many years now. He should have seen it before, Vader chided himself; should have realized what his Master was doing above and beyond training one more Hand, and taunting Vader for his past weaknesses.

Now the boy was old enough to be a threat, but naïve enough to remain loyal to the man who treated him with nothing but disdain. Desperate to prove himself before a caustically critical Master, the boy wasn't afraid to bleed…and he hated Vader with just as much zeal as Vader despised him—the outcome of that last practice duel had proved that.

But then it was true that Vader, eager to settle old scores and bitter failures at Kenobi's hands, had never once stayed or softened a blow, mental or physical, in his treatment of Kenobi's son. Certainly he had known that the boy would react when he had grabbed him and hauled him in. Thanks to the accumulated actions of a Master he so zealously defended, the boy reacted wildly to any physical touch. Still, only at the last second had Vader realized Luke's resolve; that in the moment, wild animosity fuelling the fire, the boy would actually be willing to maim himself just for the opportunity to wound Vader, the abrupt change from contained hostility to blindly-driven vehemence so absolute as to be near incomprehensible.

His Master always questioned, always doubted the boy's status, taunting Kenobi's son with the withering epithet of _blue-eyed boy_, in criticism of the fact that despite all he'd done in the Emperor's name, the boy's eyes had never changed. Not yet taken on the sulphurous yellow or fiery red of a true Sith.

Vader stared at the boy now, as the moments of their last duel replayed in his mind… If Palpatine truly questioned for one second whether the boy was indeed Sith, then he should have been there, to look into his eyes in that moment…

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"And what do you say, child?" Palpatine had leaned back from his assembled Generals to look instead to the boy. "You said that this would come to pass. What do you think the outcome of this debacle should be?"

The boy turned, face completely without emotion though his sense was deeply wary. "It should be whatever you wish, Master."

"I wish it to have been executed correctly in the first place," Palpatine growled. "But it appears to be too much for me to expect that those around me display some modicum of competency."

The boy paused, visibly uncomfortable as his Master's anger turned now on him. Still, young as he was, he was far too old a hand to allow himself to become mired in or associated with any of this debacle, resisting any attempt Palpatine made to drag him in. Vader narrowed his eyes, realizing the Emperor's earlier words: "_You said that this would come to pass."_

So then the boy was already involved in some way, and just like the assembled officers, was now looking to extricate himself. Vader allowed the barest smile to turn up the edge of his scarred lips, amused at the realization.

"Lord Vader—perhaps you have more of an opinion as to who is at fault here?"

Recognizing the cue which the boy had for some reason sidestepped, Vader walked slowly from his position at the head of the table, taking his time to make his way along the officers sat to the right of the table, who all straightened slightly as he neared, looked steadfastly forward as he slowed behind them, their trepidation pouring out with satisfying intensity. There was, in truth, more than one who should be brought to account for their failures…but the Emperor required only one example to be made today, and without the facts to craft his point, as much as Vader would have liked to lay all blame squarely on Kenobi's son, this was not the opportunity. Instead he slowed to rest his gloved hands on the shoulders of Commander Holigén. The man tensed beneath his touch, dread rising like a cloud.

Palpatine didn't even hesitate. "Commander Holigén…the only worth I see in this fiasco is that you may clarify for all present exactly what it is, to fail your Emperor. Do you have something to say in defense of your failures?"

The man straightened slightly—but though his mouth opened, no words came out.

Hardly surprising, since Vader had closed the Force about Holigén, pressing in against his windpipe with suffocating force.

His gloved hands tightened on the man's shoulders, preventing any greater struggle, as he brought the Force to bear with ever greater pressure. The man gasped and gaped like a fish out of water, every set of eyes in the room staring in morbid fascination. Save the boy, of course, who instead watched the faces of others. He'd seen so many deaths, and this was just one more, hardly excessive. He looked only when Holigén's lifeless body toppled away, released by Vader to hit the stone floor with a heavy thud, and even then it held his attention for only seconds before he returned his scrutiny to the other officers. Probably wondering how they could be surprised at this, Vader mused silently.

He turned his head slightly though he had, in truth, no need to look to Solo, the new addition to the boy's always short-lived staff, to read his thoughts. His agitation had blared out throughout the act, Viscount Indo forced to grip at one of Solo's arms to hold him seated. Now, the man looked to Luke Antilles for some kind of reaction; a waste of time, Vader knew. The boy was hardly about to react to the death of someone as worthless as Commander Holigén, who had been a marked man from the moment he had failed his Emperor. What had Solo expected—pity, perhaps? Compassion? And why would the boy feel either, when even Vader knew that no one here had ever shown him even a fraction of the same? Vader felt no pity for the man he had killed, but at least he knew what it was. The boy had no concept of what he lacked. He had no moral compass simply because he had never been subjected to one.

Palpatine straightened, his growling voice curt and cutting. "Get out, all of you. You have the entire Imperial fleet at your command. Salvage this, and prove to me your worth."

He didn't bother to speak further, the threat implicit. It lay on the floor, glassy eyed, as the nervous officers tried hard not to see it, so eager to be gone that one of them stepped on the dead man's splayed hand, stumbling, though he didn't slow. Vader watched them go, uncaring, though he himself remained, intending to fulfil the opportunity that this debacle had created. The construction of his new flagship, the _Executor,_ was falling behind; now was the time to push it—and to take control of Operation Strike Fear.

The boy too stepped swiftly forward to leave, but Palpatine's hand reached out to grab his wrist, and Vader cursed inwardly, seeing his chance fade.

"Go," Palpatine dismissed tersely, his order aimed equally at Vader as well as Indo and Solo, both of whom had slowed to a stop. "I will speak with the boy alone."

Normally Vader would have tried to remain to push his own cause, but to allay the Emperor's anger when it was so clearly about to be turned on the boy was sufficient grounds to comply. Bowing respectfully, he took a moment as he straightened to glance at the boy, tilting his head in a mocking taunt.

Turning to leave, Vader was halfway down the dark-walled chamber before he realized Solo's narrowed eyes were on him, and that although Viscount Indo had already bowed low and turned, Solo had hesitated. The Corellian held his eye for a second longer, then glanced back to the boy for assurance before he seemed prepared to obey a dismissal by the Emperor himself, his unease at abandoning the boy blasting out.

As the tall, wood-panelled doors slid closed, blocking them off from the inner chamber, Solo threw one more openly contemptuous glance to Vader, then turned away and walked slowly from the anteroom.

Watching, Vader reflected on Solo's growing friendship with Kenobi's son—or rather, more valuable to Vader, the boy's growing reliance on Solo. The Corellian's name had come up in several recent reports by Ashtor, who had mentioned that Luke Antilles was becoming close to the Corellian pilot, despite his knowledge of the inevitable consequences. Solo surely wouldn't survive much longer, when Palpatine realized. Of course, the boy always presented an automatic detachment from any others whenever he was in the presence of the Emperor, but that wouldn't protect the Corellian forever, and the boy must know that—must know from experience that the longer Solo remained here, the more imminent was his demise, at Palpatine's hand.

It occurred to Vader that he could so very easily hurry that process along…but perhaps that was a machination to be saved for the perfect moment—a threat to dangle. The boy had few weaknesses, thanks to Palpatine's efforts…could the Corellian be one of them?

Vader turned to glance once more at the closed doors before leaving, satisfied that the Emperor's cold fury was already centering on the boy, and it wouldn't be too long before it turned to open aggression.

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Held tightly by Palpatine, nails digging into the soft skin of his wrist, Luke remained still and silent as the room emptied, aware of Vader's taunting amusement as he'd turned to leave.

Eventually his Master released him, though Luke didn't shy back; outward shows of apprehension were always harshly penalized, and his Master was looking for reasons to react today, Luke knew. Palpatine leaned back in the heavy carved chair and studied him for long, unnerving seconds as Luke waited...

"Perhaps you would care to explain to me what just happened. You knew what I expected you to do."

Luke looked quickly down, hiding the truth deep—that it had been Solo's presence that had made him falter. Normally, he would have followed his Master's unspoken allusion without hesitation. It would have been he who would have walked to stand behind Holigén to do his Master's bidding. But today… Why had he hesitated, today of all days, when he knew that his Master was already looking for reasons to chastise? All he'd been aware of in that moment was Solo's eyes on him—and the tumble of feelings which had fired within him at that had held him paralyzed.

"Answer me!" Palpatine rapped, hand slamming down onto the polished table.

"I don't know!" Luke changed his answer quickly, knowing it wouldn't be acceptable. "I didn't realize you wanted—"

"Didn't realize? After your command of the Force yesterday, are you trying to tell me that my intent was not clear?"

"I didn't…I couldn't do that today. I don't have that control." Which was true—he'd made sure of that.

Yellow eyes bored into him, and though he flinched, Luke made no move to defend against the mental assault—save to push certain facts deeper away from his Master's prying senses. But they were few and well hidden, and for the most part, he allowed the onslaught uncontested.

Eventually Palpatine shook his head, lip curling in distaste. "Disappointment after disappointment, that's all you'll ever be. You want the autonomy that Lord Vader enjoys, yet you're nothing but a pale imitation, destined to stand in his shadow for the rest of your life."

Luke looked up at the goading rebuke, the one criticism that he couldn't ignore. "I'm no less than he is."

"And yet it was Lord Vader who had the simple prescience to know what I asked of him today."

"But not the foresight to see it coming."

The words were out before Luke realised it, and perhaps it was where he was being led anyway, because his Master knew precisely what he meant, glancing once to the holo of the Hutt System, still active above the polished expanse of the circular table.

"You knew this would happen." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Master."

"Yet you said nothing."

He'd tried, of course. Tried to speak out on the very first night that the plan had been put forward by Holigén, and been cut down in no uncertain terms by Palpatine himself. Still, Luke shaped his reply into more respectful tones. "You told me at the time that I had no opinion in this."

"And that is the limit of your reasoning? To wait until you are commanded to speak, like a droid or a parrig-bird?"

Luke glanced down, knowing that his Master's anger wasn't yet satiated with Holigén's death, and that despite the fact that his use of the Force yesterday had been in his Master's service, Palpatine would be looking for an excuse to re-establish his dominance. He loosed a slow, resigned breath, clenching his jaw.

"Answer me!"

Anger quickly followed Luke's unease, as it always did. "What do you want me to say? That I did it to spite you? You know that's not true. Or that I did it out of a desire to see the blockade fail—why would I do that? You think—"

Palpatine lashed out instantly, standing to launch a sharp blow across Luke's face, and Luke fell to silence, though anger boiled as he stared at the floor, cheek burning. His Master stepped in, menacing with his close presence, one strong hand curling across the back of Luke's neck to hold him still when he made to take a step back.

"Was it egotism—independence?" Palpatine's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Perhaps you think you no longer need me?"

And Luke realized what he'd just done—that to his Master's ears, he'd accused not only Vader of lacking foresight, but his Master as well. He heard the appeal in his voice as he spoke, though he knew there was no right answer any more, no defense. "No, Master. I held quiet because you commanded me to."

Cold fingers tightened, pressing into the flesh of his neck. "No? My little fledgling isn't looking to fly the nest?" Palpatine was inches from his face now, voice a hissing whisper. "Because believe me, little hatchling, if I were to push you from the nest, you would be dead before you hit the ground. If I were to broadcast the withdrawal of my protection, then a certain dark-dressed Sith would come looking for you with all eager haste."

Luke lifted his head a fraction. "Let him—I'm not afraid of him."

"He would carve you to pieces."

"He'd try."

"Indeed? He is force and fury…though even he would not dare stand against me. Remember that. You are not beyond me or my will, child, not for a single heartbeat. Nor will you ever be. Everything that you are belongs to me. Everything you will ever be."

"I know that, Master."

"Yet you stood against him in your last duel…and in doing so, against my order. You disobeyed, then and today… Am I to assume, then, that past chastisements are no longer sufficient to clarify that loyalty and obedience are absolute here?"

"I held back on your order! I could have stopped him, dead."

Palpatine lifted his hand to run his thumb over the tender sutures above Luke's eye. "Ah, my little thing, you have learned so much. But look at yourself…bruised and broken. You are not his equal—not yet."

'I'm not a child anymore." Again Luke tried to step back, but Palpatine maintained that tight pressure about the back of his neck.

"You will always be a child to me. You will always be my blue-eyed boy, my fair-haired fledgling." He smiled, voice patronizing. "Don't worry, little thing; you will always hold my favor."

"I don't need protecting."

"No? …Even from me?" Again that change, as his Master's voice ran from mocking disdain to cold, calculating resolve. The air buzzed; vibrated with pitiless intent as his fingers tightened like claws about the back of Luke's neck. "You say you're not afraid of him…are you afraid of me, child?"

Luke tensed in silence, knowing that nothing he said would change the inevitable. His Master leaned close, thin lips pulled back in a snarl from pitted teeth. "Are you afraid of me?"

The vicelike hold which gripped his neck loosened and those cool, gaunt fingers trailed free… Knowing, Luke was galvanized into action, yanking back and shouting out—

The first bright flare of power which ripped through him dropped him to his knees, the blow which landed seconds later nothing by comparison, his consciousness already faltering…

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Han walked tiredly down the five steps that led into the central hallway to his small apartment. He'd waited until close to midnight, well after his shift had finished, but the kid hadn't returned. Everyone else had milled about in silence as the evening dragged, the somber, dour apartment reflecting their anxiety, no one willing to speak but all thinking the same thing. Worrying the same.

Even the generally bright Gorn had become silent and subdued, leaving without a word as his shift had ended, Han's memory of his words ringing again through bleak thoughts.

"_Everyone around him looks the other way or ignores it…"_

To his earlier warning, earnestly offered._ "Take my advice—don't get involved."_

Eventually Han too had slunk off, nothing to say to the stalwart Indo, who would wait all night if necessary, Han knew, though there would be neither sympathy nor conciliation offered when the kid returned. There never was. Entering his apartment, Han determined to make an early morning of it tomorrow, to see if the kid had returned. Relocking his door, he turned about…and paused.

An acrid smell burned the back of his throat, and in the low light which penetrated the hallway from the living room beyond, thin curls of smoke drifted in whirling scrolls. He walked slowly down the short hallway on the balls of his feet, trying to keep quiet as he leaned cautiously round the corner…

Sitting on the chair by Han's desk, Luke was smoking a black-rolled spice stick, staring at nothing.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Han turned on the light…it remained on for all of five seconds, then dimmed again to near-dark as the kid flinched back.

"Uhn, bright light."

"What the hell are you smokin' now, in my apartment?"

"Proxyn. I think it smells quite nice." There was a mock-hurt tone to his voice, and Han huffed as he entered the living space, turning back to raise a side light just a little. He made a double-take as he turned to the kid, whose face was scuffed and bruised, blood dried unheeded on his skin from countless scratches and fine cuts.

_Palpatine._

Han pursed his lips, forcing his mind to work and his voice to remain casual. "Where're you getting proxyn?"

"The proxyn pixie came and left it under my pillow."

"Yeah? I'm surprised it managed to find its way out again."

Luke laughed lightly. "He just delivers the stuff, he doesn't smoke it."

"You should think about following his lead."

"I should," Luke said insincerely.

"How did you get in here, anyway? That's a staged lock on the door."

"I know—when did you fit that?"

"Who says I did?"

"Me. It's not palace standard. Why'd you fit it?"

"I like my privacy. How'd you break it?" Han pushed.

"I didn't. If you're beefing your security, you need to put better locks on the windows too."

"We're a hundred-sixty-eight stories up and there's no ledge out there."

"You checked?" The kid seemed amused rather than surprised.

"How'd you get in?"

"I went out the window of the apartment above, then climbed down."

"A hundred-odd stories above the ground?" And in the state he was in, already bruised and sore and scuffed before he'd risked the climb. Han remembered abruptly that it was the kind of thing that he'd done himself so many times, after a run-in with Shrike; taken stupid risks, partly to stop having to think about it, partly to blow off the anger and burning frustration at his inability to change it, and partly in an effort to prove to himself that he could do _something_. He hadn't known all that at the time, of course—hadn't seen so clearly when mired in the middle of it all—but now, looking back, looking at those same frustrations boiling in another… Han stared at the kid, still caught in that warped, self-destructive existence, as Luke sought to brush it off, dismissive as ever.

"I've climbed all over the outside of this building since I was a kid, it's fine." He paused, holding up the spice stick. "I should probably take the door out, though."

"Or you could stop smokin' the spice."

"Whatever. Why do you have a holo of a Wookiee on your desk?"

Han stepped quickly forward to mute the gently glowing holo. "Her name's Dewlanna. Was."

The kid nodded, and waited just long enough that Han thought he'd let the moment pass, before speaking. "Is that you standing with her?"

"Yeah," Han said uneasily. "It was a long time ago."

"Where did you grow up?"

"What is this, twenty questions?"

Luke shrugged. "It's the proxyn."

"You shouldn't smoke that crap."

"I know."

"Is there anything you don't take?"

"Glitterstim," the kid said knowingly, the thin, black spice stick bobbing at the corner of his mouth.

Glitterstim: Han stared, mention of the word flaring old memories of the destructive drug. A brief memory flashed of Bria Tharen, the woman he'd lost to her own addictions, her delicate hands criss-crossed with scars from handling and processing raw glitterstim. "You shouldn't touch that stuff," he said darkly.

"I know," the kid allowed. "Now. I took it once—I swear it was like someone turned reality inside out. Everywhere I looked, everyone I saw, it was like I could see all their past decisions trailing along behind them and all their futures in front of them, crossing over and intersecting with everyone around them, more and more every time there could have been a variation. Like every possible future of every possible event in their life was all crammed into this one reality and there was no room left between to breathe or think. I have a distinct memory of trying very hard to get everyone to stand absolutely still and do nothing, in an effort to make it stop. They were running around trying to send for Indo, and all I wanted in the universe was for everybody to be very, very still…and every single second felt like it lasted hours, because every possible thing that could have happened in it had to play out, all crushed into that same second…."

Han stared, taken by the intensity of the kid's memory… Ever uncomfortable under scrutiny, Luke glanced up with an ill at ease shrug and sought to diffuse the moment.

"Then I threw up for three days straight. Couldn't conceive of pulling together the concentration to say my own name for the first day and a half, which didn't really matter that much because, honestly, I didn't remember it anyway."

"Sith kid, how much did you take?"

"Just one stick—a gram," Luke said casually as he pulled a long draw on the black spice stick he held. "Apparently glitterstim and Force-sensitives don't mix, but nobody told me that. Here I am trying to damp down this damn stupid Force, and it turns out glitterstim winds it up. "

Something clicked in the back of Han's mind as facts fell into place. The kid's admission of his own abilities just last night: _"Too much and that's when Palpatine starts thinking. Too much, and there's always a backlash—a need to clarify the order of things, and my position in it."_

His panic earlier that same day, when he'd been summoned to face Palpatine unexpectedly: _"I need spice ... Afterwards is too late."_

Han frowned, trying hard to keep his voice casual at the unexpected admission which clarified so much, spoken without thought under the influence of the proxyn. "That why you take it?"

More talkative than usual on the spice, the kid shrugged. "It cuts everyone out. Cuts me out, too."

"Cuts everyone out?"

"You can't hear them. It all goes quiet." Luke glanced to Han. "You live your life like this, in this empty space within your mind. All you have to do is go there and everything's quiet. Me, I hear every single mind in this whole damn palace...for miles around, sometimes. Every thought, every hope, every frustration…everything. Palpatine taught me that."

"Can't you…I don't know, tune it out?"

"Yeah, but only…it's like being in a room full of people and everyone's talking at once. And sometimes you can just let it wash over you, you know? But sometimes…you know what it's like when you tune into a noise, and you just can't stop, once you've done it. You can't ignore it, it just…burrows in there until it's all you can hear. Drives you insane. Palpatine taught me to tune into the mind of another Force-sensitive when I want to cut the other voices out, though."

"Let me guess…the only other Force-sensitive around here happens to be Palpatine himself, right?"

The kid's grin was loose and spice-soaked. "Well I sure as hell aren't going to go looking for Vader's mind."

"Convenient though," Han said; that Palpatine wanted total control of Luke, and what he'd taught him just happened to make sure that the kid would be dependent on him. "But spice dulls it anyway—makes them go without Palpatine's intervention," Han added, realizing.

Luke smiled as he lifted the black spice stick to his lips again, a slow trail of inky smoke trickling from them as he spoke. "More than that…you get the right one, and spice makes the Force go. Almost completely."

"_It doesn't even occur to you to ask_ if_, does it?" _Han remembered the kid saying._"If I want it at all."_

"So, what, you can't…?"

"I can't sense it, can't connect to it—and it can't connect to me. When I've smoked spice…I'm normal. I'm just like everyone else." Unfocused, spice-blurred eyes fixed on Han, contentment obvious. "Imagine that."

Han stared, seeing the kid afresh. "Is that what you want?"

Luke laughed dryly, "What _I_ want…what's that?"

Han sat without speaking, wondering if the spice would keep the kid talking.

Luke took another long draw then held the spice stick up, a trail of that thick tar-black smoke twisting from it as he blinked heavy eyelids. "This…this buys me normality—or as near as you'll ever get round here."

"… Does he know?" Han asked at last.

"He found out ages ago, when I'd ended up in the medicenter from some bad spice. Indo tried to hide it but…it got out. The medic, I suppose. I was three days in the medicenter, and on the fourth day he sent for me. I was summoned to his quarters, and when I arrived…when I arrived, there were two sticks of shenir spice on a side table. He told me it was for me, and I should take it."

"He _gave_ you spice?" Han couldn't hide his disgust.

"Don't get too outraged," the kid said dryly. "I'd never taken it before. It was stronger than I was used to, but Palpatine made me take both. Then he told me it made me weak…and he _illustrated_ to me why, exactly." The kid briefly tipped his head to glance wryly at Han. "That was when I realized just how much it cut my contact with the Force down. He told me to defend myself…and I couldn't. He…"

Han watched the kid still, frowning just slightly, scuffed and bruised face pinched by memories…then suddenly he seemed to remember Han's presence and grinned.

"He put me back in the medicenter for another two days. Told me never to even consider going into his presense having used the stuff. So I became more…careful after that, learned to be more cautious. I learned to disguise it, so he couldn't tell."

"He doesn't know you still take it?"

Luke smiled hazily. "You should be impressed—there's not many people could lie to a Sith."

"Except another Sith," Han said knowingly.

Luke's face took on that wayward edge, and for the first time, Han wondered if it was as much a refusal to be cowed as it was wilful mischief. "Now, you see, I know that the trick is never to go into his presense _without_ it. You make it normal."

"But that means you make it normal for you, too," Han said. "Why'd you want to be…limited like that?"

The edge of the kid's lips twitched just slightly. "Because normal doesn't interest Palpatine."

And there it was—the part of the puzzle that Han had been missing. The drugs didn't just buy him a mental escape from this life, they didn't just buy him a way to tune other minds out and free himself of his dependence on Palpatine…they also made him normal, and normal made him invisible. To Palpatine. And looking at the kid right now, bruises still darkening beneath drying scabs, Han could see why that was a desirable thing.

Luke loosed a private smile as he stared through half-closed eyes at the black smoke. "More than that…normal drives him insane."

Han shook his head, running his fingers back through his hair. "You can't…you gotta get out of here—out of the palace—you know that, right? First chance you get."

"I will."

"I'm not talking about becoming an Emperor's Hand, I'm talkin' about now—right now. I'm talking about getting out and never coming back."

The kid turned from the smoke to stare at Han, clearly not understanding. To him, the opportunity to serve as Emperor's Hand was the first, best and only chance on offer. How the hell did you get a kid to think like that? How did you get him to be willing to live like this? Han shook his head slowly, at an absolute loss as to where to go from here.

After long seconds, Luke held out the spice stick. Han had to laugh, shaking his head in refusal. "That's not the answer."

"It is eventually."

"When did you start using it?"

Luke took a final draw on the stump of the spice stick, and Han thought he'd discard it…instead, he patted his pockets and pulled another out, lighting it from the dying embers of the last one. "I dunno. Like I said, probably when I was about twelve, I think. Eleven or twelve."

Han frowned. "You shouldn't back-to-back 'em like that."

Luke dropped the spent stub to the floor unheeded, and let his head loll back as he drew on the newly lit stick. "Yeah, 'cos that's the biggest problem in my life right now."

"How d'you manage to find spice aged eleven?"

"Eleven was when Palpatine handed me over to Indo, so I had freedom to move about for the first time. And…stuff had happened."

"So before that?" Han prompted, hoping the spice would keep the kid talking whilst he wheedled out more facts.

Luke glanced down. "Before that I was with Palpatine."

Looking at the kid's battered features in the low light, Han knew it was all he needed to say. Was probably all he could say. He cast about for something to keep the kid talking "How come nobody knows that you were here before eleven?"

"I…was kept out of the public eye. They took my details off the Central Records System when I first came here."

"You're on the System," Han said, very sure—though he didn't admit to having used Gorn's clearance to look the kid up. "Everyone's on the CR System."

"Yeah but my details have been changed—quite a few times. The first assassination attempt came a few months after Palpatine decided to let me out."

"Out?"

"Let me…be seen."

If he was less inclined to bother covering the facts with elaborate lies any more, the kid still seemed reticent to tell the truth. Instead he picked and chose what he told, and for now, Han let that pass—at least he was getting some of the details. And judging from the fact that the kid was smoking what looked like his third spice stick already, Han was hoping he'd get progressively more talkative and less cautious.

For now, Luke shrugged. "That was when I was eleven. They cut my hair and dressed me in new clothes, and Palpatine hung a lightsaber on my hip then pushed me halfway out onto that balcony above the crowds… That was the first time—the first time I realized." At Han's questioning stare, Luke tilted his head in thought. "I'd known for years that Palpatine had been the center of my existence, the center of my life… I'd even known that he was Emperor. I just…I hadn't known what that really meant. Hadn't known until that moment, when he pushed me out onto that balcony above the crowds, that he was the center of everything, everywhere. The center of the galaxy. "

Han took a breath to say, '_He's not,'_ and the kid turned shrewd eyes on him…and he couldn't say it. Because it'd be a lie, and there were too many of those clinging to the kid as it was.

Luke watched, waiting for a few seconds more. When Han didn't speak, he took another long draw on the spice stick, eyes narrowing at old memories. "I didn't want to go out there—that was only the second time I'd been outside in four years—but he clamped his hands on my shoulders and he walked me out there…and I knew he was up to something. I didn't say that—didn't say much of anything back then. But a month or so after that, the Rebels tried to kill me."

"I heard about that. What I don't get is why?"

"That was the first time I'd been seen since…since I came here. The first time the Rebels realized that I was still alive."

"Why would they want to kill you, though?"

"Because I'm Sith. Kenobi's son or not, if I was with Palpatine and wore a lightsaber on my hip, I was being trained as a Sith. That made me a threat to them."

"Kenobi was with them, wasn't he?" Han remembered the kid saying that once before, the first time he'd admitted that Kenobi was his father. He'd said then that Kenobi had been among those who'd come here to kill him.

Luke nodded, expression unreadable. He'd had years to try to put all this into perspective, Han supposed…though would that make any difference at all? The kid's own father still came to kill him, simply because he'd grown up on the wrong side of his father's war.

"So…what happened to your mother? I guess you were brought up with her until you came here, right?"

"My mother…I was…" Luke shook his head as if angry at himself, and started again, voice tightly constrained. "You remember the terrorist bombing here at the Imperial Palace nine years ago? The assassination of the Alderaanian Royal Family."

"Vaguely." Han remembered the outrage in the media at the time, because it was the Alderaanian Royal family, and everyone knew they were moderates. The official press had been all over it, saying that the Rebels had no conscience and no shame. He remembered there were huge clampdowns afterwards, right across the board. For the protection of the people, the Empire had said.

He'd had his own problems at the time, but he remembered it. Remembered… Han straightened slightly as the facts came flooding back. The Alderaanian Royal Family—didn't they have a son who'd died alongside them in the explosion? How old was he at the time?

He looked to Luke, making the rough mental calculation, though he needn't have bothered. The kid was nodding somberly. "They were my parents. Forget Kenobi—they were always my parents. They always will be."

Han cursed, appalled at the brutal cruelty of the kid's short life. "You were in the explosion?"

"No. No, I saw it though… Saw the explosion, saw…" He fell to silence again, frowning deeply.

Han shook his head, realizing only now just how much the kid had been through, so young. "You were…" _What was her name?_ "You were Breha Organa's son?"

It made sense; if the kid's father was Kenobi, and that was a genetically verified fact, then logically, his mother must have been Breha Organa.

"My mother was…" The kid hesitated, tripping over the words, throat tightening. "My mother was Queen Breha, I think, from the Royal House Antilles. Bail Organa…he was my adopted father, but no one ever knew that. I didn't know it myself at the time—didn't know that either of them might not be my real parents." Luke paused to look up from his study of the spice stick in his hand, his pale eyes solemn and serious. "They'll always be my parents, to me. Always. Palpatine told me…he said they were using me—or were going to, when I was old enough. It's not true. I never believed him. But he cut me off from Alderaan entirely when the assassination took place; registered me as dead in the Central Records System, gave me a new identity. I didn't use a surname for a long time. When I started again—when Indo told the Emperor I needed one—Palpatine let me use the name Antilles, after my mother's family, because it's a pretty common surname in a lot of systems. Organa would always have been…contentious. Questions had already been raised by Alderaan, so to use my father's name would have meant acknowledging my heritage and therefore my right to rule, which I guess you know by now that he never intended for me."

Han glanced down. "I'm pretty curious as to why."

Luke shrugged. "Immaterial now. Alderaan's been under martial law for almost five years. There is no Royal Family any more."

"But there are still Antilles. Do they know about you?"

"They were suspicious for a brief time, when I reappeared, I think. It's better this way…for them. Palpatine took the Alderaanian aristocracy apart when the Antilles and the Organas started trying to find out the truth."

"You ever thought about going back—to Alderaan?"

The kid shook his head. "I came here when I was so young, I don't really remember anything before."

"Why don't you want them to know about you?"

Struggling for words, emotions clearly running deep, Luke fought to keep his voice casual. "I told you, it's better this way. Safer. For them."

Now, knowing the Emperor in person, Han nodded. "But shouldn't you be the ruling…whatever—king, or something?"

"Palpatine disassembled Alderaan's right to planetary Sovereignty when the Organas began asking precisely who I was, when I was seen on that balcony, aged eleven. I have no idea how they made that connection. Probably it was through the Rebels—they obviously had their suspicions. Anyway I shouldn't rule, not by bloodright."

"But even if this Jedi Kenobi was your father, if Breha was your mother…"

"I don't know if she was, not biologically… She'll always be my mother, and Bail will always be my father, to me." He repeated this with absolute, unwavering belief. "But they're dead, and believe me, the best thing I can possibly do for what's left of the Royal Houses is to leave them well alone. There are so few people who know what happened. Indo does, and Vader…they know that part of the truth, anyway."

"Not Gorn?"

"You're kidding. It'd be all over the palace in less than an hour." The kid's wry tone, in the midst of all this scheming and deception, drew a smile from Han as Luke continued. "And Palpatine knows, of course—the whole truth. Palpatine…engineered most of it."

Han felt his smile fade. "What does that mean?"

"Palpatine… There was no Rebel assassination, not really."

Han straightened slightly, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "Palpatine…?"

Luke looked down. "He never hides the truth—not from me. When he first spoke to Vader about it, Vader said that he didn't think Breha Antilles was my mother. He said it a few days after the…assassination. But you know Vader—anything to lash out."

"Even then?"

"From the very first time he saw me." Luke nodded without elucidating. Instead, he looked quickly to Han. "You know you can't tell anybody about this stuff, right? Or you'll be killed—I mean actually killed."

Han nodded slowly. "Excellent. Always good to get a heads-up on that."

Luke hunched down a little, the tip of his spice stick flaring brightly as he lifted it to his mouth. "You get used to it here. Truth is a dangerous thing."

"Around here, I'm never quite sure what it is anyway," Han said wryly.

The kid shrugged as he took another long pull on the spice stick, fingers trembling as he held it, though that could have been the subject or the spice, Han knew. He watched Luke lean back, a melancholy look coming into his spice-hazed eyes. "You want the truth—all of it? The truth is a powder blue dress."

Han glanced from Luke to the spice stick, not sure what the kid even meant. "What?"

"Powder blue that should have been black. But I was too young to realize. Too young and too scared. If I'd known…" Abruptly he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees as his head dropped forward, shoulders tensed. For the longest time he remained silent, head shaking. "But I didn't…my own stupid fault."

He remained still, head down, face hidden…then right there, in front of Han's eyes and without hesitation, he pressed the glowing tip of the spice stick into his palm, the hiss as it made contact springing Han into action. He lurched forward to knock the stub of the spice stick from Luke's hand and across the floor.

"Luke—what the hell!"

The kid looked up, eyes glassy with emotion, but charged with some deeper amusement. "What, it's nothing."

"You can't…you can't do stuff like that. What the hell's goin' on in your head!"

Luke smiled just briefly, then looked back to the ash-smeared wound. "The truth…that it's my fault. All of this—my parents, the assassination, their death, it's all my fault."

"How is it your fault?"

"Palpatine said he did it for me, to make me strong. I could have stopped it…somehow, I _should_ have stopped it, but I let them die…I did that."

"No, you didn't."

Luke only glanced away. "You don't understand."

"Well then tell me!" Han knew he was so close—he wouldn't let go, not this time. The kid wanted to tell somebody, Han could see it in every fiber of his body…he so desperately wanted to tell someone.

"How old were you?" Han forced himself calm, looking to keep the kid talking, to ease him in.

Luke was silent for a long time, gently shaking his head. When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. "I was…it was my eleventh birthday. I was…still with Palpatine and I…" Luke paused to heave a long sigh without looking up, then another.

Han waited, giving him time, and eventually the kid continued.

"I had done something. I think I'd probably broken out…again—that always got a strong reaction."

"Broken out?"

"The chamber where I…it had no windows. I never saw the sky. Sometimes I just wanted to see the stars. But…it…" He took another slow breath…another…then shook his head, rising quickly. "No, I can't. No."

"Luke…"

Han stood, but the kid was already walking away. He leaned quickly forward to grab for Luke as he passed, and the kid twisted about, staggering a step from the spice, more agitated than ever. Remembering, Han backed off with his open hands out before him, knowing now that the kid didn't like to be touched. "Okay, it's okay. I get it."

"I should…I have to go." Luke turned quickly, hand swiping at his face as he walked the short hallway.

"Luke?"

The kid paused at the door, his back to Han as he swayed slightly. Han waited, knowing that any chance to prolong the talk was over, but still wanting to give him the time and space to pull himself together.

"The key code's five-one-nine-nine-six."

"I already knew that." Luke turned to smile briefly, eyes glassy from emotion and spice, and in the low light, he looked like the kid he really was. Then he was gone, and Han was left staring at the closed door in the semi-darkness, the pall of bitter-smelling smoke still choking the air.

Eventually he took a step forward to stub out the still-smoking spice stick on the floor, shaking his head as he let out a long, rough sigh and walked through his small apartment to dial up the air exchange. He paused by his desk where the kid had sat, pushing idly at the datapad and daily detritus that gathered there…

Underneath, drawn into the surface in those familiar fine, scratchy lines, was a half-finished sketch of the holo Luke had seen—of Han as a young kid, standing before Dewlanna, her big arms about him. Han smiled, running his finger over the sketch—then frowned.

Already knowing, he opened the drawer beneath his desk…all the styluses were gone.

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As usual, when you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my own website, where there's a little extra at the end of each one. There's a link to it on my bio page above my avatar (just click on my name at the top of this page to get to my bio page), or the address is all the three w's ". alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!) - hope you'll enjoy!

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	10. Chapter 10

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**CHAPTER TEN**

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The comm call came in just after two in the morning. Han let it ring out twice, but whoever it was didn't seem to take the hint, and by then, he was awake enough to start worrying that it may be something to do with the kid, so he leaned over to fumble it on. "Solo."

"Han?" It was Gorn. "We've lost Luke."

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That was how come Han was wandering, tired and bleary-eyed, around The Shades—the dark underbelly of the shining Palace District, far above. The strange thing about the Palace District was that, while the wealthiest families on Coruscant owned sprawling floor-spanning apartments and whole pallazzos up where the sun actually shone, down in the shadows dirtside and way lower than the light of day ever filtered, it had a broad selection of the scuzziest, rundown, decaying and plain dangerous cantinas you could ever hope to find. They seemed somehow to have gathered in the long shadow of the palace, hunched together in the cramped, mean streets lit only by blinking signs which never quite reached into the dark alleys and the shadowed doorways.

He and Gorn were doing a wide sweep of cantinas down here, because Gorn knew for a fact that the kid went to the Sinkhole and the Sin Cantinas, and Han had first met the kid in the Dirty Dug, which bordered The Shades and the Dyging District, nearby.

He didn't really mind being down here—though he had silently thanked all over again the fact that, despite being dragged out of bed in the early hours of the morning, he'd still had the street-sense to come out in civilian clothes; three minutes down here in his black Imperial uniform and he would have ended up as another dark smear on an alley wall. But after a childhood spent hanging around alley-heads in any number of rundown port towns as a lookout for Shrike, Han still felt at home in a place like The Shades. In fact, he'd made a habit of dropping in on the Blue Lekku cantina less than ten minutes from here, just to keep his hand in. But it was now three a.m., and the drunks and the spiceheads were gettin' mean.

Knowing the kid, Han figured he should look for the sleaziest joint around, then see if it had a back room. Down a narrow alley on a litter-strewn side street a sign fritzed in and out, throwing the two Weequay bouncers at the door into brief, staccato clarity as they stared stonily ahead. The sign read, '_Bad Break Cantina.'_

Han walked down the alley and between the two beefy Weequay with a brief, " 'Scuse me, fellas."

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It was about as dark inside the cantina as it was outside, and Han nearly took a header down the nine steps immediately inside the door. But he caught himself in time, and took advantage of the high ground to take a good long look about the big room, only slightly impaired by the thick haze of spice which drifted lazily above the movement of too many bodies.

He did the booths and the corners first, of course—kid tended to stay out of view—then scanned across the mass of bodies in the center of the room…nothing. He was about to leave when he glanced to the bar, the only place in the whole cantina that actually had some light…and there, dressed in a short, scuffed and worn hide jacket which melted him into the crowd, was Luke.

Congratulating himself silently, Han negotiated the barely lit stairs to walk up behind the kid, who was sat perched on a stool at the bar—not his usual spot. Han was halfway across the floor before he realized the reason why; the kid was talking to a compact, curvy little brunette with big brown eyes and thick shoulder-length hair, held back from her youthful face by a plait which started behind one ear then ran like a headband across the top of her head, the tail of the plait from behind her ear running a good few inches longer than the rest of her hair. Not local either, Han noticed peripherally: her clothes were the wrong cut and style.

Eyes coming back to Luke, Han grinned as he pulled up behind him. "I knew I'd find you here, tappin' up some chick for spice…"

Kid didn't even turn. "Go away."

"Fine—c'mon." Han turned about, then back when he realized that if he left, it would be alone. "C'mon, I'm risking my hide here."

"Well then go."

"Yeah right, 'cos having spent half my night finding you, I would just leave you here."

Finally, Luke turned, annoyed. "Would you just go!"

The girl tucked a strand of her mahogany-dark hair behind her ear. She wore a slack, crossover tunic and fitted pants with a wide leather belt which cinched in her tiny waist, still discernible under the ankle-length hooded cloak she seemed reluctant to take off despite the heat in the room. Hooking her booted feet up on the bar of her stool, she turned to look Han up and down appraisingly. "Who's this?"

"My older brother," the kid lied easily. "Way older."

"Yeah, I got all the looks and the brains, he just got the mouth."

The woman turned back to Luke, smiling. "It's a nice mouth."

Han rolled his eyes. "Good grief. Look, doll, he's kinda busy right now…"

Luke turned on Han. "What about 'go away' do you not understand this time?"

"The part where, having dragged my ass out of bed at two a.m., I leave you on your own," Han retorted. "You know, half the…_place_ is out lookin' for you."

The kid couldn't have been less impressed. "Well then go and tell them I'll be back tomorrow."

"It _is_ tomorrow."

"In the morning—I'll be back in the morning."

"Indo's on his way here."

That turned Luke around. "You told him?"

The girl leaned forward, clearly alarmed by the change in Luke's voice. "Who's Indo?"

"Indo's the guy who's gonna ground your new friend here for a month if he finds him in a dive like this—yet again," Han said pointedly, his words aimed more at Luke than the little brunette.

She frowned—and now that Han was actually paying attention, she was quite a looker—about the kid's age with dark, rosebud lips to balance those huge brown eyes as she looked back to Luke.

"Is Indo your father?"

"No," Luke stated emphatically, turning back to her.

Feeling suddenly guilty at ruining the kid's chances, Han attempted to backpedal. "Indo's our Unit Commander."

Her eyes only widened further. "You're military?"

"No!" Luke turned on Han. "Would you stop trying to help!"

But the girl was already rising. "Maybe I should go."

"No wait, please!" Luke stood as she did, reaching out to catch her wrist…and she paused, those brown eyes widening like a startled fawn's. He let her go quickly, hand out as if to calm her, and she brought her wrist up, wrapping her other hand about the point that he'd touched her…

"I'm not military, I swear!" Luke said quickly. "He was just trying to make me look good. Please—meet me here again?"

She hesitated, seeming to consider. "I shouldn't… What did you just do?"

"Do? Nothing…please—tomorrow night?"

"I can't, not tomorrow. I have to be in the Myzicc District, to meet a friend."

"The night after?"

Again she paused, but curiosity overcame the caution in her eyes as she nodded—and even Han knew she'd turn up. "Here, at eight."

"Eight's too soon—I can get here at ten, ten-thirty?"

She nodded again, a smile coming to ruby lips, and Han took the opportunity to grab Luke's jacket at the small of his back and begin pulling him backwards to the exit. "He'll be here—I'll bring him myself."

Luke kept watching her, letting Han pull him several steps by the bottom of his jacket before he half-turned briefly, glancing down to where Han held his jacket. "Hey, what's this?"

"This is me getting you outta trouble—again," Han said, as the kid backed neatly up the steps which led onto the street without once turning to register where they were. Somehow it was the small stuff like this which Han always found really freaky.

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The kid sat in silence in the black speeder on the way back, chewing at his thumbnail. Han took a roundabout route as he commed Gorn to call off the search, hoping to slip in at the military supplies entry gate, as Luke stared out, thoughtful.

Eventually Han risked a sideways glance. "Y'know, I'm impressed." Luke turned from his reverie as Han continued. "At least you picked the best lookin' girl in the place to hit on—looks like you were doin' pretty good too."

"I wasn't hitting on her," Luke said levelly, and Han grinned.

"Whatever."

"She's a Rebel."

The speeder did a brief, wild swerve, making Luke grabbed for the dash as he was thrown to the side. "Hey!"

"Rebel? Tell me you're kidding! Tell me she's a spice dealer or a professional killer or, or…something!"

"She's a Rebel, and I need to talk to her again. I need to check some stuff before I do, though."

"What d'ya mean, talk to her again?"

"When we go back."

"We're not going back."

"Yes we are."

"No, we're makin' up an identi-fit, handing that and the cantina name over to Intel, and stayin' the hell away from there."

Luke straightened. "We're going back."

"No, we're not."

"You said we were!"

"That was when I thought you were hittin' on her."

"Fine, I'm hitting on her."

"Yeah, that was when I thought you were hittin' on her and I didn't know she was a Rebel."

"What do you think is going to happen?"

"Seriously? If Palpatine finds out?"

"Palpatine knows! Well, he doesn't know about her in particular, but he knows I was going to try to track down the contact from the spy I killed."

"The dead spy from Sinto Barracks—that's his contact?"

"Yes. You heard her say she had to meet someone in the Myzicc District…that's where Sinto Barracks are—the one that the spy was smuggling Imperial codes out of. That was the cantina I saw in his head, and I'm pretty damn sure that she's his contact."

Han relaxed a little, relieved enough now to joke. "Man, I'm on the wrong side of this war—all the cute brunettes are always on the other team."

"Whatever. We need to go back."

"Why?"

"When you said we were from the military—and thanks for that, by the way—she panicked for a brief second. Just a second, but I got something…something she wanted to protect."

"What?"

"_Skyhook_."

"Skyhook what?"

"Just that—Skyhook."

"That's it?"

"She's good at masking her thoughts. But the spy had the same thing in his head as he died…a need to protect it," Luke said thoughtfully. "It's something… Something big, if they're willing to try to put spies and J…and Rebels in the Capital. I need to go back and see if I can get any more from her."

"No. Uh-uh. Why don't we just bring her in? Hand her over to Intel. You get a pat on the head from old yellow eyes, my blood-pressure returns to normal, and we forget all about it."

"No, I have to go back."

"Seriously, are you actually _trying _to turn that pat on the head into a side-swipe? Do you spend your days thinking of new and novel ways to wind the old man up?"

"No, I try to do my job."

"Your job, soldier, is to hand that information over—and you know it."

"I'm not a soldier, I'm Ubiqtorate…and my job is to follow a mission through until its conclusion. This is only just beginning."

"Well then just tell the damn Ubiqtorate!"

"No, that's not what I do—it's not what I'm trained to do. I work below official radars. I take orders from and answer to Palpatine, you know that."

"And you seriously think the old man's gonna say, 'Yeah, what the hell, I know I like to have people watching you every second of every day, and I spend my life on a fuse so short you just have to blink without permission and I give you hell, but you go on ahead and sneak outta my palace again, to meet with a Rebel. Have fun! I'm not gonna come down on you like a ton of duracrete—not at all.' "

"That is the worst impersonation of the Emperor that I've ever heard."

"Hey, I was going for the essence of the conversation, not a literal portrayal. My point remains, he'll bounce you off all four walls, and you know it."

Luke slumped back down, no answer to that. After a few minutes Han pursed his lips, guilty at throwing the threat in the kid's face. "Listen, let's just do the right thing, pass the details over, and let Intel worry about it, huh?"

"I'm not handing her over."

"Why?"

"Because…" The kid fell to silence, and Han wondered if he maybe liked her after all.

"Fine, I'll tell you what, we'll just keep quiet and forget all about it. Our secret."

Luke glanced sideways, staring at Han as if he'd said something outrageous…then shook his head quickly and let out a low sigh, staring straight ahead. "Fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"And you're not just saying that and intending to go back tomorrow night anyway?"

"No."

"That's the most unconvincing no I've ever heard."

The kid was saved a reply, as the speeder was coming close to the military-only entry gate. Instead he remained still, looking straight ahead as Han keyed the blackout window down.

"Military," he said simply.

The trooper took Han's ID and scanned it, then ducked to look at his passenger. "Who's that?"

"Military," Han said blandly.

"Right," the trooper said, sceptically. "I'm gonna need to see ID."

It had been worth a try. Han turned to the kid, hand out. "ID?"

"Didn't bring any."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope."

"Just…what…"

"Like I intended coming back through an official gate," the kid dismissed, unfazed.

Han glared a moment longer before turning back to the trooper with his 'best buddy' smile on. "C'mon, pal, give me a break."

"I don't do breaks, Sir."

"Look…"

Luke leaned abruptly over across Han to catch the trooper's eye. "Go away."

The stormtrooper remained silent for several seconds, motionless…..then he straightened slowly, backing away from the speeder as he muttered Luke's words under his breath.

"Keep going," Luke said, his stare just a fraction too fixed as he watched the trooper back up.

Han too watched uneasily. "How far're you gonna make him walk?"

The kid frowned, not breaking eye contact with the trooper. "Why?"

Han shrugged. "Just…y'know."

"Don't you wanna find out how far back I can make him go?"

"Luke!"

The kid huffed, clearly unsure as to why that was a bad thing. "Fine…stop there. We didn't come past—no one's come past in the last few minutes." His voice wasn't raised, but though the trooper was a good distance away, Han could see his helmet bob several times, as if he'd heard and was repeating the kid's words.

With a final backward glance, Han accelerated the speeder into the main hangar to settle it in among three dozen identical models. He shut off the repulsor, staring at the wall ahead of him. Eventually he sighed. "You're still goin' back, aren't you?"

"Yep."

"Damn, I hate this job."

"I have to go," Luke said without turning to Han.

"Because?"

"I think she knows something else—somebody I need to speak to."

Han tilted his head, determined not to be dragged into this latest wild and pointless scheme. "Who's that?"

"My father, Kenobi."

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The cantina was thick with spice smoke by the time they arrived, late in the night. Stood behind Luke, Han glanced about, eyes acclimatizing to the low light as he followed a step behind the kid, staying close, because Sith knew what he'd do if everything he said was true—though if Kenobi had managed to last this long, Han was guessing that the man wouldn't be stupid enough to ever come to Coruscant. Then again, he'd actually tried to break into the palace itself not that many years back, intending to kill Luke.

Kill his own son. Han frowned at that—at what the hell the kid had made of it, when he'd found out. At what he'd have to say, if he ever got to face his old man. At what he'd do. His mind went back to the lightsaber duel between Luke and Vader—to the honed skill and the frenzied fury that the kid had turned on someone who was supposed to be an ally. What would he do to the man who had abandoned him at birth, then come looking for him to kill him when the kid was barely eleven?

Luke clearly intended something—though it seemed like he was willing to play the long game to get it, if he had to. He'd already had Han stop a few blocks back and one level up to buy a freeline comlink from a random trader who was selling them from the back of his speeder—all perfectly legit, of course...

"What's this for?" Han had asked, as the kid opened the forged box to pull out the comlink and charger, throwing the rest away as he walked.

"I need a clean comm code," Luke had said casually. "Pick them up unlocked, and if you don't fire any flags by using trigger words, and don't overuse it, it'll stay under the radar for a few months before you have to change it."

"Why exactly do you need it to stay under the radar?" Han had asked knowingly. The kid hadn't bothered to reply, and Han had nodded. "Is this a bad time to point out that I'm still on military probation?"

"Please, you don't give a damn about the military."

"No, but I do give a damn about facing off to Indo—or more importantly, old yellow eyes—and having to explain why exactly I let you drag my ass into this."

"Well then go back to the palace and claim ignorance. Not that it'll work with the Emperor, you understand…speaking of which, you need to hang back a bit and keep quiet when we get there."

"What, afraid all her attention'll be concentrated on the good lookin' one?"

"Very funny," Luke had deadpanned. "More afraid that she knew what I did when I took her arm a few nights back."

"Which was?"

"I was about to plant a compulsion in her mind—make her want to come back tonight—but I stopped short because…I'm pretty sure that she sensed something."

"_Sensed_ something?"

"The point is, you just need to hold back a little and keep quiet. I haven't got time to teach you anything now, but there's a way to deal with this, to at least partially keep a few thoughts hidden from someone who isn't specifically looking. Tonight, I'll just have to stop her attention centering on you too much, but the less you draw attention to yourself, the better."

"You want me to go in after you and sit in a corner?"

"No, she'd spot you," the kid had dismissed instantly.

Han had tilted his head, voicing mock vanity. "I do stand out in a crowd."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Just let me do the talking."

"That is the worst excuse for a 'give me the first shot' line I've ever heard," Han had crowed.

"Whatever. Just stay back and try not to think of anything…that last part shouldn't be too hard for you, at least."

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The weird thing was that to look at them, they could have been two kids in any cantina on any planet, Han reflected. He'd taken a seat behind the kid at the bar after giving the brunette a brief nod of acknowledgment, and was now spending his time trying to look every direction but at them, and wondering how the hell you thought of nothing when this was going down less than three paces away…and why that was even important anyway. Mostly, his head was filled with a thousand and one ways that this could go catastrophically wrong for the kid, and how to get him out of it when it did. And occasionally, he stole a glance at the woman with the open, animated face and the damndest doe brown eyes…and then he remembered that she was a Rebel, and being here was doubtless gonna drop him in some serious trouble, somehow or other. It wasn't even her, necessarily; he just had something of a track record for finding it.

Still, he had to admit that the kid was pretty good at this stuff, all youthful charm and wide-eyed smiles. Not a single question asked about Kenobi or the Rebellion, nothing that was at all contentious. Lots of other questions though, but easy to answer, nothing too searching. Getting her used to answering, Han supposed.

Kid had that expression on where he tipped his head slightly forward and grinned, making him seem at once eager and shy. It took a while for Han to remember where he'd seen it before, because it certainly wasn't in the kid's daily gamut of sardonic distance, but he finally pinpointed it as being at the reception in the palace, when Luke had been targeting the old industrialist, ordered to find out whether the man had Rebel sympathies. He'd been all earnest and innocent then too. All amicable enthusiasm. And it seemed to be working again, because the dark-haired girl was smiling warmly and leaning in as she spoke, her whole attention on him.

"I wasn't sure you'd even be here."

Luke straightened slightly. "You're kidding, of course I would! I thought you wouldn't show, not for me. I mean…uh, so…what were you doing here, before?"

She smiled at his apparent embarrassment. "I came to see someone."

"In a bar like this? You should be careful." Kid was ridiculously earnest, and the brunette smiled.

"I can take care of myself."

"Oh no, I didn't, y'know, mean to imply that you couldn't." Luke backpedalled, all gawky unease, which would've been cute, had Han not remembered the cool menace in the threats the kid had loosed on the last Rebel he'd come into contact with—the spy at Sinto Barracks. He felt a brief flare of guilt at leaving the brunette to fend for herself as Luke continued, one hand picking with mock-nervousness at the frayed edge of the bar stool he sat on. "I just…well, when you left that night… I realized I should have gone with you—made sure you were okay."

"You're very sweet." The brunette glanced down to hide her smile, her tone implying that she believed herself a hundred times more capable than the naïve youth sitting opposite her. Then again, from the looks of Luke, Han couldn't blame her. She glanced at the sutures above his black eye. "And, no offense, but you look like you could do with a little protection yourself, from time to time."

He straightened, grinning. "Hey, you don't know how many of them there were."

"How many?"

Luke let himself slump just slightly, self-depreciating humor in his voice. "One, actually…but he was bigger than me—which isn't hard, I know."

She stifled a smile, drawn further in by his humility as he leaned forward earnestly.

"But I'm serious, though. You shouldn't walk around here late at night on your own—or the Myzicc District…that's where you said you were headed, isn't it? Parts of the deeper levels are no-go areas after dark. There's a huge military base there too. You have to be careful, if you don't know the capital." He glanced briefly back to Han, one hand out—as if Han's opinion mattered too, all of a sudden. "I mean, the military are pretty heavy-handed this close to the palace, right? And Myzicc District…they've been touchy there for a few weeks now, I heard."

The brunette sat up a little straighter. "Touchy how? Increased security?"

"I don't know, I don't get that close to it. I just hear what people say, you know?"

"What do they say?"

"Oh, they get a lot of sensitive stuff going through the barracks there…Sinto, I think that's its name. It's a major communications hub, or something. I think they had a lock-down just a few weeks ago."

"Lock down?"

"That's when they seal a base off, nothing in, nothing out. Someone told me it means they've had some kind of problem on the base." At this, Luke half-turned to Han. "Right?"

The woman didn't even look at Han. "What kind of problem?"

Her voice was calm and conversational, but she was clearly interested, the kid slowly drawing her out by offering a little of what she wanted to hear.

"I don't know," Luke said apologetically. "I only know about the lock-down thing because I have a friend who does deliveries there. I could ask him for you, I suppose."

"Could I speak to him?"

"Well…sure, if you wanted." Kid's voice was a subtly hesitant mix of friendly and slightly wary. "You're not…you won't get him in trouble, will you?"

"No, I wouldn't do that." The brunette smiled, touched by the kid's careful protection of what Han knew damn well was a non-existent friend.

" 'Cos he shouldn't really speak about stuff, I don't think. Maybe I should talk to him first, tell him that…what's your name?"

"Leia. Leia Skywalker."

"Skywalker," Luke grinned. "Great name. Maybe I can tell him you're okay...you _are_ okay, aren't you?"

She smiled again. "I promise, I'm not looking to get your friend in any trouble."

"Why do you want to know about Sinto anyway?"

"I just have a friend there, that's all. He was supposed to meet me last night."

"What, in the military?" Luke let an edge of nervousness creep into his voice, and the brunette—Leia—smiled.

"Just an acquaintance. We didn't manage to meet. Maybe he's stuck in the base if the lock-down is still on." She let the last hang as a question, and Luke shrugged.

"Oh, I don't know. I don't know how long these things last." He glanced down, then made an overstated and under-subtle attempt to check out those about him. "You know, you should…you should be careful about who you ask stuff like that. Especially in the Palace District."

"Really?"

Those big doe eyes seemed the picture of innocence, leaving Han to wonder if the kid was wrong about her.

Luke loosed a big grin within a shrug. "I mean, I know you don't mean anything by it, but…"

A comlink sounded quietly at Leia's belt, and she rushed to answer it, standing to take a swift step back, her face suddenly serious. Luke turned away to face the bar as if to give her privacy, but Han could see that he watched her closely in the reflective backdrop to the massed bottles behind the bar, his face falling straight. She took another few steps back, turning casually about as she spoke, so that her face was no longer visible, and the kid pursed his lips.

By the time she returned to him, her own demeanour had changed too, distracted and troubled. "I'm sorry, I have to go."

"What, right now?" Luke glanced to her comlink, only concern sounding in his voice. "What's happened?"

"Nothing. I just…I'm busy, you know?"

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

"No, I have to leave planet, tonight. I need to get all the way out to the Auril Sector by—" She stopped herself as if surprised by her own words, looking closely at Luke.

"When will you be back?" he asked quickly, moving her thoughts on as he stood. "Can we meet again? I can speak to my friend and get back to you…when?"

"I don't know," she said as she backed towards the door. "Soon—I'll try to get back soon…and I'd like to meet your friend. Do you have a comm code?"

"It's CC-hash four-five-three-seven-one-nine-nine."

"CC four-five-three-seven-one-nine-nine—got it."

"Wait, you don't need to write it down?" Kid did a good line in awed admiration, Han had to admit.

The woman, Leia, smiled broadly. "No. I'll contact you, I promise…?"

"Deak," Luke said without pause. "Deak Autrey."

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"So you're just gonna let her leave?" Han asked, stepping closer as the woman picked her way through the crowded cantina without looking back.

"Until she gets me to Kenobi," Luke said, his smile fading instantly as she passed through the door.

"Should we follow her?"

"No, she'd know."

"How d'you figure that out?" Han asked, head askew. "I might be way better at trailing people than you."

"She's a Jedi."

"What the hell? Seriously?"

"That's probably how she knows Kenobi," Luke said calmly.

"You didn't say _that_ last time."

"I didn't know the last time—not for sure. She was cloaking her abilities like I was cloaking mine, then and today."

"So does she know you're Sith?"

"Not yet. Sith have always had the ability to hide our connection far easier than Jedi—we can hide in plain sight. She knows I have some kind of connection to the Force, because I almost used it to persuade her to come back the last time, when I took her arm. But I broke off immediately when I touched her and realized what she was. All she would have sensed was a split-second, the vaguest attunement; she wouldn't have been able to ascribe it—I don't think she'd even know it was pre-meditated. Could have easily been the raw emotions of an untrained Force-sensitive."

"Why is she coming back if she even thinks you're…y'know?"

"Because she's curious." Luke turned to glance at Han, openly amused. "Maybe she even thinks she can recruit me—in which case, I'm hoping to get to Kenobi. Or maybe she just intends to kill me, when she can catch me in a less public place. This time she got pulled away…she may come back to finish the job though. Jedi tend not to leave unfinished business."

"Which begs the question, why are you gonna meet her again?"

Luke stared at the empty doorway, coolly calculating. "Because I can snap her delicate little neck long before she pulls that lightsaber she has hidden at the small of her back."

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my website, where there's a little extra at the end of each one - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page, or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	11. Chapter 11

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**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

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Han walked into the library in Luke's apartment, where the kid was alone, lying on his back on the long polished table, his eyes on the high ceiling, a red-wrapped spice-stick in his mouth. About him were a scattering of datapads showing various images of planets and what looked like military installations from their dour grey colors, though Han didn't recognize any.

"Solo!" Luke didn't look to Han, but grinned as he entered the room. "Perfect timing!"

"Yeah, why's that?"

"You got a stylus?"

"…Yeah." Han's tone was instantly wary.

Still without looking, Luke held out his hand. "Gimme."

"Sure, what the hell, I always like to start my days by getting my ass kicked by Indo."

"Seriously, this is work."

The spice-stick bobbing in the kid's mouth as he spoke, didn't fill Han with confidence. "You don't do work."

Luke sat up, letting the datapads scatter as he did so, his hand still out. "Just give me the damn stylo."

Han loosened the asymmetric fastening of his military jacket to pull his stylus from an internal pocket and hand it reticently over. "I'm gonna be wanting that back…"

"Whatever." As the kid snatched it, he pulled a piece of flimsiplast out from behind him with a flourish.

"Are you supposed to have flimsiplast?" Han asked doubtfully.

"Nope." The kid grinned disarmingly, his words coming out in a haze of red smoke. "But I'm betting that if Indo's coming in here to take something off me, it's not gonna be the flimsiplast."

"Yeah, I was wondering about that." The room was already tinged with that familiar, bitter smell.

"I'm thinking…free association."

Han wasn't impressed. He bobbed down to retrieve one of the datapads that had slipped from the desk, unheeded. "Little early in the morning for free association, isn't it?"

"Nah, this is still late last night for me." The kid was leaning over the piece of flimsiplast, writing in aurebesh. He ripped a strip off the sheet and lifted it up to show Han, speaking aloud what he'd written. "_Skyhook_."

"Skyhook?"

"That's what the dead spy was trying to protect: Skyhook."

"Which is?"

"I don't know—he didn't know."

"Well then why was he protecting it?"

"He'd heard it somewhere, presumably. Maybe from the right person, but not in context… Which brings us neatly back to our suspect new friend Leia Skywalker's thoughts, when she slipped."

Han's mind went momentarily back to the petite woman with the big brown eyes and the memorable curves. She didn't even vaguely fit with his perceptions of what a Jedi should be… Then again, the kid wasn't exactly his idea of a Sith, either. "You sure she was a Rebel?"

The kid was already writing again. He lifted a second piece of flimsyplast for Han to see. On it was written, '_Leia Skywalker: __Rebel__.'_

Han rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, it must be right if you've underlined it."

"Really?" the kid asked sardonically, hunching over again to add, '_Definitely!'_

"So…" Luke took to rearranging the slips of flimsy again, sliding the various datapads about to sit under one or another of the written headers. "We have a dead Rebel protecting Skyhook, we have a Jedi turning up to find him, and we have the Maw Installation EP's…connect the dots."

Han reached out to tear off a piece of the flimsyplast and scribe quickly on it. Lifting it up, he licked the back and stuck it on his own forehead. It was a question mark. "This is me having no idea what you're talking about."

Luke let out a brief laugh in a twist of crimson smoke as he took the stylus back. "Okay, there's a research center in the middle of the Maw Cluster in the Kessel system called—imaginatively—the Maw Installation. It's where Tarkin keeps all his pet scientists. The Maw Installation's remit is to design and perfect top secret and experimental weapons for the Empire. There's a lot of information that goes between the Maw Installation and the Imperial Palace on Coruscant and even encoded, everything that's sent utilizes an EP."

"A what?"

"An echo pip. It's a security measure. With every packet of information you send, in the last five hundredth of a second you send a single-bit pip, on a partial-degree variation. The pip and the end of the message should arrive simultaneously. If they don't—if they're even a fraction of a second out—something's wrong. If they arrive at their destination out of sync, then someone somewhere is intercepting that packet of information—but they won't get the pip because it's a fractal variation, it's impossible to detect. If you have the right buffer, it only takes a fraction of a second to intercept, redirect and duplicate a message, but that still puts the EP out slightly. And guess what—the pips aren't coming in on-sync from the Maw Installation. Surprise, surprise."

The kid was bent over as he said this, agile enough that even though he was sitting cross-legged on the table, he could rest his elbows on it as he wrote out another strip of flimsyplast: '_Maw Installation intercepts.'_

He sat back up, arranging the three pieces of flimsyplast before him. "So, we have Leia Skywalker, we have the Maw installation security breach—subtle, mind you, and ongoing—and we have the elusive Skyhook." He looked up at Han. "You can take the question mark off your head now."

"I dunno, I think it may have to stay for a while yet."

Luke grinned, looking back down as he pushed one of the scraps forward, the spice stick bobbing in his mouth again. "Okay…Skyhook." He reached to take one of the datapads and slid it across the table to Han, who swivelled it about to look as Luke continued to speak. "What could Skyhook be?"

"A skyhook's a spacehook—a high-orbit repulsor craft with full life-support, generally nanofiber tethered."

"Think wider—outside the box."

"Skyhook's also the name of a tapcafé in spitting distance of the main barracks on Carida."

"Used by Imperial military?" As he spoke, Luke wrote, _'Carida tapcafé_._'_

"Pretty much exclusively."

"There are also a total of just under five thousand military skyhooks on Imperial worlds, serving as navy and supply depots."

"How many in private hands?"

"Just short of a thousand on Coruscant alone—mostly rich boys' toys."

"None linked with any past unrest?"

"Six. They're all under surveillance, as of today." Luke glanced up. "The Emperor also has a skyhook. It's huge…massive. Has an environmental bionetwork, a central structure with a gallery and a very valuable museum, storerooms…a Throne Room."

"I didn't know."

"He's probably been twice, that I can remember. Too obvious anyway. I'm guessing that the name doesn't have anything to do with actual skyhooks."

"So why were you asking?"

"Just bouncing ideas. Remember the spy on Sinto station? Most of the codes on the datacards he had were very specific…ones which pertain only to the Maw Installation. No actual information—none. Just codes. You know what was at the Maw Installation until recently? The Emperor's shiny new Death Star."

"I thought it was Tarkin's?" Han said dryly.

"It's the Emperor's," Luke said distantly without looking up. "Everything everywhere is the Emperor's. Everyone else just does as they're ordered." He said this without even considering, sliding another datapad with Death Star schematics on it over to sit underneath the '_Skyhook'_ header. "Given that the majority of information regarding it comes to Coruscant through Sinto Barracks, Skyhook could conceivably relate to the Death Star…the question is, how." Luke had leaned forward again, the smoke from the slim, red-papered spice stick curling up through his hair as he wrote, '_Connection?'_

"You just said the connection—the spy at Sinto was passing on codes for the Maw Installation."

"That's what they're doing. What's important is why they need those codes, because if they do, it means they already have information regarding the Death Star, otherwise they wouldn't be looking for specific codes—not yet. The question is, how have they gotten information from a research installation that doesn't officially exist? How could they know where to look? I need to know that, otherwise we can't shut it down."

"You've already shut it down—the spy is dead. Just change the codes."

"That doesn't tell us how much the Rebels already know, and about what precisely. Or stop the method by which they're intercepting information coming from the Maw Installation. The Sinto spy was only collecting codes, not information, which means they already had that. If we simply change the codes, their method of gaining information remains intact. They just need to get their hands on the new codes. And it doesn't tell me what Skyhook is—because that's what's important. It could be their information retrieval method, how they're processing it, or what they're intending to do with the information they have. You know what else we have?" Luke leaned forward again to write. When he brought up the new scrap of flimsyplast, Han leaned in.

"Auril Sector?"

"Leia Skywalker said it. She had to go there, remember?" The kid was dragging one of the datapads back to him to key it in. When it showed the page, he switched to holo, and a small 3-D map of the sector floated above the datapad. There wasn't much there—just thirteen thinly-spread systems, a single marked deep space port, and the wide span of the Cron Drift asteroid field. Which seemed to Han like just the kind of place you'd be looking to hide out in, should you need to lie low.

"You think there's a Rebel base there?"

"I certainly hope so. Otherwise the three-day trip to get there on a Destroyer will have been a monumental waste of time."

Han straightened. "We're going?"

Luke grinned like a kid as he took the spent stub of the spice stick from his mouth and flicked it across the room. "Field trip!"

"Seriously? We're actually going?"

"I told you, my job is to see any mission through to its conclusion…and this one is only just starting. I want to know why Skyhook is important enough that Kern Derrig was prepared to die to protect it, and they sent a Rebel Jedi to try to pick up the pieces when he did. I've called in the SD _Immortal._ We're hitching a ride out tomorrow."

"You _called in_ a Star Destroyer?"

"Yeah."

"You can do that?"

"Ubiqtorate," the kid said of himself, as if that were answer enough in itself.

He climbed off the table, abandoning the pile of datapads where they lay as he walked towards the door.

"Woah, woah, woah," Han said, realizing. "Where's my stylus?"

"I'll tell you what, if you can find it you can have it back."

"That wasn't the deal," Han glanced to the kid's hands, then back to the big library table he'd been sitting on. The stylus was nowhere to be seen.

"That's because there was no deal," Luke said, winking as he passed Han. "There is now."

"C'mon, don't make me go get Indo."

"To tell him that you actually voluntarily gave me a stylus? Go ahead, his dressing you down will give me an hour's entertainment, at least."

"Where's the stylus?" Han tried his serious voice when the kid reached the door.

"You're not even looking in the right room."

Han turned to set forward after the kid. "You got it on you, right?"

"Nope."

"Well, I sure as hell haven't got it on me."

"You know, I'm constantly amazed by the fact that if I tell you something, you just automatically assume it would be the truth."

"It's back in the library."

"No."

"I'll buy it back off you."

"Please—I just fenced Moff Terto's Order of the Imperial Star last week. The real one, not the fake pavé one he wears at functions." Luke half-turned conspiratorially as they set off down that long, dark hallway. "He doesn't know that yet—I switched the pavé and the real one whilst I was there, so he's still all relieved that he didn't lose the _real_ one."

Han was barely listening, still patting down his own uniform. "I liked that stylus…it was a gift from a friend."

"You don't have any friends on Coruscant, and it was standard military issue."

"How would you know?"

"You think I don't know what standard military issue looks like?"

"Friends—that I don't have friends here. I've got friends."

"Please, you hate everyone in the palace. That's the one thing I like about you—in fact, I damn nearly respect you for it."

"I have friends outside of the palace."

"In those cantinas you go to? I'll bet you do."

"I happen to like those cantinas…and how do you know where I go?"

"I follow you."

"I knew it!"

The kid turned, but continued walking backwards, voice deadpan. "Seriously…you seriously think I have nothing better to do with my time than follow you?"

"Well then, how do you know?"

"Because _someone_ follows you and reports it in," the kid said casually. "I've told you before, everyone's watching someone here. And anyway, I've been in the Blue Lekku a few times when you've walked in the door. You know it's a spice den in the back, right?"

Han shrugged. "I think that's the least of its vices. And where's my stylus?"

"That why it's your local?"

"Let's just say I feel right at home there."

"You enjoy things too much," Luke laughed.

"Damn straight."

"You shouldn't… You especially shouldn't admit it. Anything can be taken away so easily."

It was the underlying certainty of the kid's words which turned Han's head. Luke frowned, instantly uncomfortable beneath Han's scrutiny, and Han looked away, seeking to dispel the kid's unease at his accidental admission. "This from the kid who has more spice in his possession than your average Hutt."

"You think I enjoy spice?"

Han's step almost broke, but he kept walking, kept his tone light. "Well then why keep using it?"

The kid turned about to walk forwards again, jaw clenched tight.

"Luke?"

He turned back, grinning as if the last moments had never happened. "Time's up."

"What?"

"Time's up. I get to keep the stylus."

Han blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "How d'you work that out?"

"Those were the rules."

"I didn't know the rules."

"Then you shouldn't have played the game."

"…Fine, you know what, you can keep the damn stylus. Happy? Now where the hell is it?"

"Look up."

Han frowned, uncertain, then lifted his head to look up… Hovering above him, hanging impossibly mid-air just a few inches overhead and defying any concept of gravity, reality, and just plain common sense that Han had ever clung to, was the stylus. Han stared for several seconds, then gingerly lifted his hand. It floated smoothly up away from his reach.

Luke turned casually away as Han stared, wondering if it was worth making a jump to grab for it… Probably not.

"Come on," the kid said over his shoulder. "We need to get to stellar cartography to get a breakdown of what's officially in the Auril Sector. Then we need to stop in at Intel—get a breakdown of what's _actually_ in the Auril Sector."

They were out of the apartment before Han risked another glance up…the stylus was still there, just above his head. "You gonna get that down?"

"Eventually…why?"

"It bothers me. What if it falls?"

Luke half-turned, voice light. "Or what if I spin it about and gouge it into your carotid artery? If I was gonna worry about something, I'd worry about that."

"Nah, you won't do that," Han said in similar dry tones. "It'd stop your stylus working."

"That's alright," the kid replied gamely. "You have another one in your inside breast pocket."

"No way did you see that."

"No, but you've thought about it several times."

Han glanced to the kid, then briefly to the stylus, still floating just above him, keeping pace with them as they walked. Finally, he shook his head slowly. "Damn, I hate this job…"

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There was something about being back onboard a Star Destroyer that felt so intrinsically _right_ to Han. The proportions of the corridors, the rumble underfoot that transferred up through his soles and into his bones, the sense of being in artificially pressurized space, which never quite fooled the inner ear, the combined noise of air exchanges and temperature regulators and door releases, and the hundred other grinds and clicks and ticks that any craft of this size played out every minute of every day.

And he had a private cabin that was way bigger than any he'd ever been assigned as a TIE pilot—hell, the 'fresher was bigger than his old pilot's cabin! He threw his bag down on the plasteel floor plates and flopped down onto his bunk—his bunk in a separate sleeping room, no less…with an actual outside viewport! Knitting his fingers behind his head, Han grinned at the ceiling; yeah, he could see how a guy could get used to this…

Not so much the hours. It was almost midnight before they'd finally checked everything and received permission to have the _Immortal's_ course changed yet again, to pass close to the Cron Drift. After the nightly ritual of the tablets, with Luke's reluctance and Indo's fastidious check, Indo had taken the standard issue ream of flimsiplast and the two styluses, which had been neatly placed along with other customary equipment on the officer's desk in Luke's supplied quarters, and had retired. And another routine—one that Han had no intention of getting used to, as everyone else apparently had—reared its head, as the kid rummaged in his unpacked holdall and pulled out a small copper box.

Han was already scowling as Luke thumbed his strike lighter and lit the scarlet spice stick. "How come you never do this in front of Indo?" he asked knowingly.

Luke shrugged as he walked over to the wide desk, sitting to open the drawer and lift out four sheets of flimsiplast that he'd clearly hidden from the main pile at some point, before Indo had taken it. "I dunno, habit I guess. I don't know if you've noticed, but he likes it to be known that he officially disapproves."

Remembering the kid's proxy-soaked admission from a week ago—that he took the spice to dull his abilities—Han tried again. "You're not at the palace any more—you don't need it."

The kid looked up sharply. "Who told you that?"

"You did, when you were on proxyn—one more reason not to take it, I might add."

"Well don't you just know everything," the kid said dryly, undoing the fastener of his own jacket to pull Han's stylus from his inner pocket.

"Does Palpatine know?"

"I would imagine so—he knows most things. He doesn't know why though, and neither does Indo." The kid's reply was casually conversational, though the implied warning was still clear; if only Han knew, then if it got out, Luke would know who was responsible.

Han glanced down. "How could Palpatine not know why—I thought you Sith could read minds?"

"We can, but we can block our thoughts from other Force-users, if we choose. Lock things away." He paused, eyeing Han closely. "Speaking of which, it seems like this week away is a good time to teach you how to do a basic mental sidestep—hide what you're thinking about."

Han leaned forward. "So I can do this kinda stuff too?"

"No. It won't stop a Sith from forcing your mind open and reading anything they want. It's more of a general avoidance, so they won't bother to look. Just a mental discipline about assigning thoughts, more than hiding them—you can't hide them, not from a Sith. Not if they choose to look."

"Or you could just stop smoking the damn spice."

The kid leaned back again, amused. "Why do you even care? If you get that transfer you're still thinking of requesting from Indo, you'll be out of here inside of a month." Han glared as the kid tapped his own forehead with the stylus, his inference obvious as he nodded knowingly, more amused than accusing. "Oh, so that's how this works. You want to know everything about me, but I can't know anything about you? Yeah, I know this kind of one-way street."

Han pursed his lips. "I thought I was an open book to you Sith?"

Luke shrugged, eyes on the flimsiplast as he began to sketch light lines at its edge. "I like to hear the audio version."

He could have sidestepped, Han knew—the kid probably wouldn't even call him on it, having made his point...but if he wanted in… "What d'you want to know?"

Luke settled, eyes still on the flimsiplast, voice distant. "I dunno…anything."

"Well…I grew up an orphan." He glanced immediately to the kid, looking for some kind of reaction to their shared past, but Luke didn't look up. "I was picked up off the streets by a guy named Shrike—Garris Shrike. He kept his own little army of kids like me, and used us to run all kindsa' scams, mostly round Corellia. Begging, when we were young, then pick-pocketing, then stealing to order, then more organized stuff—big con jobs, smuggling and the like. There were a lot of us, all ages, and Shrike ruled with an iron rod. You never messed with him—ever. Put me out cold a good few times when I was a kid…and older. But you know, you get to the point when you start to think for yourself, and you reali—"

"No, not interested in Shrike."

Han scowled, aware of the truth about why the kid didn't want to hear about Shrike; it struck too close to home, and he knew damn well that it was the reason that Han wanted to pry him away from Palpatine. Han's memories of his childhood with Shrike were hard enough; seeing someone else growing up under a similar heavy hand only made him more and more determined to break the chain. But the kid didn't want to know, of course. Palpatine had gotten his claws in too deep for that.

Han folded his arms. "You wanna know who I am, that's who I am…and why I'm still here."

"I don't need help, and I don't need protection."

"I never said you do."

Unexpectedly, Luke loosed an easy grin as he settled again, tapping the nib of the stylus onto the sheet of flimsiplast. "I have _got_ to teach you how to hide what you're thinking, this journey. You're a liability. And anyway, Shrike's not the reason you don't want me to touch spice."

"Why can't I not want you to use the stuff 'cos it takes over your life, makes crap that you'd otherwise want to change tolerable, and wastes your abilities."

"You can." The kid kept his eyes on the blank sheet of flimsiplast. "But that's not the reason, is it?"

"Yes, it's that. It's exactly that. I've seen it before—watched someone who should have been smart and sharp and spirited just…just slowly drift away because they'd gotten themselves onto a course that only went darker."

"…Who was it?"

"Bria…her name was Bria Tharen."

The kid settled his weight on one elbow, drawn out a little. "You knew her well?"

"Yeah. We met on Ylesia, not long after I'd left Shrike. She was…she was this delicate, graceful, serious thing. Damndest big brown eyes. But she was already wasting away. For a while, she wouldn't see it…and when she did, she still couldn't break it. Exultation, they called it. It was a front for a cult which used its members for slave labor and used the Exultation to keep 'em there." He glanced to the kid. "It's surprising what you'll do—what you'll tolerate."

Luke had rested his spice stick on the edge of the table to doodle idly on the flimsiplast sheet as he listened, his attention on Han, though he wasn't looking. He paused at Han's last words, but he didn't lift his head.

Han sighed, thoughts on Bria—on all that she'd meant to him, all that he'd lost. "I got her away—and we seriously thought it'd be okay. We thought it'd be that simple. But addiction's a strange thing, because it creeps up on you, and your own brain does its damndest to try to hide it. That's what addiction is…everyone knows but you, and you still don't want to admit it, because you don't want to be that person. You think you're the only one who's different. You're not. Bria…she couldn't forget the Exultation, couldn't step back. She just faded away from me a little bit at a time…faded away from herself. All that life and intellect and elegance…it all withered and wasted, and all I could do was watch. Then, one morning, she was gone. She'd packed her stuff and was gone, like she'd never been there. She left a note. It was nothing that we didn't both already know." Han glanced down, scowling to cover deeper emotions. "And now I've got nothing, not even a picture. I've not a damn thing left of her at all, because that damn addiction took away everything that she was. Took her from me. She meant everything to me, but I've got not one thing left to prove that she was ever in my life. Not one thing. She just…faded away."

He looked up, and the kid was watching him intently.

"I'm sorry." It was blunt and it was guilty and it was heartfelt.

"Sorry's not enough. Sorry doesn't change it. It didn't change it for Bria, and it won't change it for you. And I know you're thinking that you're not her, and maybe you're not…but you soon will be. That's how it works." Han rose, not wanting to push the matter any more tonight, his thoughts tangled up in Bria—on the empty void she'd left inside him. "You may think you've got your reasons...hell, you might even be right, but everything that it gains you, it takes twice as much away. Think on that…'cos trust me when I say that you may believe you've got all the time in the worlds, but let me tell you, I'm here on the outside…and I know what I'm looking at."

The kid almost spoke, but instead nodded quietly and stood. Halfway to the bedroom he paused to murmur, "Goodnight, Han."

It wasn't agreement, it wasn't even close—but the remnant of the spice stick was still balanced on the edge of the desk where the kid had abandoned it, and it gave Han a kind of quiet pride to see that whilst he'd spoken, it had been left to burn to a long line of cold ash, unsmoked. One down, the rest of the kid's whole life to go. He'd take the victories one at a time, if he had to—with the spice and with Palpatine.

Rising to start for the door, Han's eyes were drawn to the sheet of flimsiplast that the kid had been idly doodling on as they'd been talking. He frowned and lifted it.

It was Bria. Lightly drawn, with the barest of detail. But the essence of her: her smile, her eyes…the gentle seriousness that was always a part of her—all those memories and moments that had coalesced in Han's thoughts as he'd spoken tonight were somehow encapsulated in the quickly sketched lines. Too close to have been a guess; the kid must have been reading his mind as Han had described her, picking the details right out.

Han realized, staring at it, that it was the first good thing he'd ever seen the kid use his abilities for—and he knew why Luke had left it. Smiling, he folded it carefully up, and put it in his breast pocket.

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He made it two nights before he went down to one of the TIE bays to sit on the upper gantry floor, and just watch. Stared at the fighters, contemplating that this was the longest he'd kept two feet on the ground—metaphorically speaking—since he'd first gone to Carida, to train as a pilot. He'd had such a clear line for himself then—a place he was heading, an idea as to how to get there. Lieutenant Commander by thirty, Wing Commander by thirty-five. He'd known exactly who he was and where he was heading in life. There were no palaces which made him feel he should tip-toe and whisper. No high and mighty viscounts or screwed up, wise-ass kids. No Emperor—not up close and personal. He remembered exactly standing in front of a huge portrait of the man, edged with two perfectly draped Imperial flags, to recite the Oath of Allegiance on his first day at Carida. It had been easy to say back then…so easy to make a pledge to a man he'd never met. A distant figurehead he had no chance of meeting in his entire life. He'd made a vow to the principle, the ideal…

Everything had been so clear and so measured, living in the bowels of a ship just like this. You got up when they told you to get up, you ate when they told you to eat, you flew when they told you to fly…and you fought whoever they told you to fight.

But everything had changed in the last year, starting from the moment that Han had been ordered to go into the derelict slave ship, put a blaster to an injured Wookiee's head, do what he'd been ordered, and ignore absolutely that it wasn't right…it wasn't _right_. And it was Commander Nyklas, a senior officer who didn't even have the backbone to go in there himself, who had ordered Han to do it. He'd known, even as he'd entered the hold, regulation blaster in his hand, that he couldn't do it. He had a keen sense of being on the wrong side of an unequal situation, when the Wookiee had only been looking to free his own kind from slavery. He wasn't fighting the Empire, he was freeing his own people—his own young. It was wrong. Not just the order to kill the Wookiee, but…everything. Slavery. In the Empire's name. He'd grown up at the mercy of someone else's temper, grown up as a commodity, and he knew absolutely, firsthand, that it was wrong.

But even having been given the command, he'd still managed to convince himself that it was the officer himself who was at fault. That it wasn't the Empire; that it all somehow went on behind the hierarchy's back and without their knowledge—or that of the man whose image he'd stood before when he'd made that pledge.

But now…now, having met him, having stood up close and personal with the man who made his skin crawl and his scalp itch and his stomach twist in distaste…

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Han was beginning to wonder…was the Empire wrong because the Emperor was?

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Just two years out of drydock, the SD _Immortal_ was a Class II Destroyer, boasting the new, much-improved bridge with a wide sweep of command walkways which ran to either side and down the center of the oval bridge, surrounding two lower-level crew pits. Its wide run of large, triangular viewpanes ranged across the front half of the bridge, presently offering a panoramic view over the staggered, drifting chaos of the Cron Drift asteroid field.

Despite the fact that he hadn't worn a uniform since they'd stepped foot on the _Immortal_, Han hadn't missed the fact that Luke was standing without challenge on the command walkway, an area generally reserved only for senior officers. Han, as well as Indo, it seemed, were accorded the same politely distant respect from the _Immortal's_ command crew—only the second time in his entire career that Han had been standing on a Destroyer's bridge…and even the first time, he'd been in the crew pit.

Presently they were gathered in one of the two tech alcoves which were placed to either side of the curved bridge, studying early readouts from the Drift as the massive Destroyer hung to the edge of the extensive asteroid field, its captain, Roth, unwilling to take the _Immortal_ in without good reason. Unlike the screens to the front of the bridge, which were clear, explosion-rated viewports, the screens within these two small side alcoves actually held artificially generated images, capable of displaying either a real-time feed of what the viewer would have seen, had the rear of the bridge not been set back within the main tower of the Destroyer, or technical information, as the viewscreen did now. Luke had stepped forward to scrutinize it, overlaid with the data presently being processed from the Destroyer's two massive scanning domes.

Nothing—not a thing—looked out of place. Captain Roth was making his own way to the tech screen now, though Ops had already reported the absence of anything unusual in preliminary scans.

"Perhaps your source was unreliable, sir," Roth said calmly as he studied the data. He was a big man who came over as immensely capable, if a little straightforward in his approach. The kind of effective if unimaginative officer you saw everywhere in the fleet, who could be relied on to get a job done, exactly as ordered and to the letter.

Still, he was imaginative enough to know that when someone had the power to interrupt the regular duty route of a Star Destroyer, you called them 'sir' whether they wore a uniform or not. Even if they stood shoulder-height to you and were less than half your age.

Han hadn't yet really worked out their status here, on a standard military ship of the line. Clearly Roth remained in charge, and it was his orders which directed the crew, but he seemed willing to give his passengers a hell of a lot of leeway. And Indo, a perpetual presence at the kid's shoulder, was constantly pushing Luke to take all that was offered.

"Luke?" he prompted quietly now.

The kid didn't look round, continuing to study the data as it came in, eyes narrowed in concentration. "What's this?"

Commander Isman, Roth's second-in-command, leaned in. "Power signature, sir."

"I know that. I want to know what it's doing floating inside the edge of an asteroid field."

Isman glanced into the crew pit, and the Ops officer nodded, working to clarify the data. "It's very low. Residual, in fact…"

A larger asteroid passed before the source—and when it cleared the point, the power signature was gone. Everyone straightened, and Luke reached out to rest his finger on the viewscreen, keeping it on the point at which the signal had emitted. "Triangulate it. Pinpoint the source, based on existing data."

The Ops officer stood to catch Isman's eye. "Sir, we didn't have sufficient signal to lock it down—the high metal content in the asteroids has a scattering effect, and it's interfering with scans. We can narrow it down to an area of one hundred twenty clicks, which holds five asteroids, but their positions are already changing."

"Tag them," Captain Roth said briskly.

Luke stared at the triangulated area, marked out on the viewscreen. "Bring us head on to the area. I want to see it."

"See it?" Han murmured. What exactly did the kid think he could see from this range, that a full-range scan couldn't pick up?

Luke didn't reply, but walked quickly to the front of the bridge as the Destroyer maneuvered its massive bulk ponderously about to sit nose-in towards the wide expanse of the Drift… He stood for ten minutes, staring into the asteroid field, eyes moving constantly.

The bridge slowly settled from an expectant buzz to a routine boredom as the pit crew settled back into their seats and the officers slowly gathered to one side, talking amongst themselves.

Eventually Indo moved forward to stand beside the kid, who raised his arms to link his fingers across the back of his head as he murmured a retort to unheard words, his whole demeanour expressing frustration. Glancing about, Han stepped closer in time to hear Indo's quiet reply.

"…can't simply expect everyone to wait until…"

"Yes, I can. That's their job."

"But they need to know what exactly they're doing. You need to learn to step in and take control of a situation without…"

"Someone's out there."

Indo stilled, keeping his voice low. "Where?"

Luke stepped closer to the viewpane, eyes narrowing as he stared out. "In the Drift—someone's out there…three, maybe four individuals. I can sense them."

"At the source of the power signature?"

Luke tilted his head, frustrated. "If they could pinpoint the power signature, I might be able to tell you. As it is, we could be looking for ships, we could be looking for a stationary unit…"

"Can you locate them from here?"

"They're spread—in two locations, I think." He turned about, suddenly decisive. "Captain, can we make a slow, close pass at the very edge of the asteroid field—point ten of sublight. Turn all sensors on the Drift, fine-focus."

Luke turned instantly back, but Han watched the Captain stare for a few seconds more, clearly nearing the end of his tether…then he made the order, bringing the Destroyer to the very edge of the Drift.

They spent the next fifteen minutes on a slow crawl, sensors trained just inside the Drift, finding nothing. Han was wondering how long they'd keep going—or, more specifically, how long the Captain would be willing to keep this up, when Luke stepped closer to the viewport. "Full stop—all engines!"

"Luke?" Indo prompted.

"There—he's right there!" Luke stared out into the darkness, his voice dropping for Indo's ears alone. "Near…frustrated…and very nervous, because he's watching us."

"A man?"

The kid nodded. "Human." He turned about, voice rising as he issued an order. "Sensors…what do you have?"

"Sir?"

"About…three-thirty by four-ten by six-six-one…there's _something_ there. Lifesigns?"

"Uh…no lifesigns, sir. I have several small anomalies—maybe sufficient to equate to a very small craft, but there's no power signature, not even residual, and the asteroids' metal content causes dips in..."

"He's faking—he's faking it, covering his lifesigns somehow."

Indo hadn't moved, but he looked down, voice a quiet warning. "Luke."

It took a second longer for Han to realize that Indo was warning the kid against too obvious a display of his abilities. Luke glanced just once, then seemed to rein himself in as he turned back to the Ops pit. "Pull a fine-focus scan across a narrow section through the center of the anomaly you have—go for density of metal; define the edges by distance from the asteroid behind it."

"Information's coming in, sir…possibly a small craft, but the signature's very confused."

"That's why he's there!" Luke said it as if it were obvious, but Han could understand the Ops guy's reluctance.

The man straightened slightly. "Sir, I have a partial match on shadow contours—it could be an Incom X-wing. Completely powered down, with no lifesigns. It's sitting almost on top of one of the asteroids, over a crater with high metal content."

"Got him!" Luke turned instantly to Han. "How's your flying, Solo? Not too rusty?"

Han glanced at him, uncertain for a moment what the kid meant. It was only when Luke turned and headed off the bridge that he realized. "We're going out there?"

"Well, I am, and I need a wingman."

Han stepped closer as they entered the outer vestibule, lowering his voice as Luke keyed for a turbolift. "You're kidding me—a wingman? I'm reduced to wingman now?"

"Flying a TIE Interceptor."

Han grinned. "Excellent!"

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They were in the second TIE bay just off from the smaller forward hold, and Han had just done one of the fastest changes to a full vac-suit he'd ever accomplished. Despite claiming that he had to drop in at the equipment store, the kid was already waiting for him, swinging his scratched and scuffed helmet impatiently. Han looked to it as he neared, noting its obvious wear and tear, though that wasn't the first question in his mind. "Seriously, you wear a standard helmet?"

"What, a standard helmet fits me," the kid defended, tipping his head to one side as he murmured, "The webbing goes pretty small."

Han had a hundred retorts on his lips, but they were at the TIEs now, and they took his attention completely. There were just two Interceptors in the bay, well away from the other TIEs and clearly loaded on specifically for this journey, their power umbilicals trailing from cargo boxes retrofitted with adaptors to enable them to connect to the standard TIE power couplings. Indo had probably set this up on arrival, his usual efficient self, Han figured.

Every pilot worth his salt knew what the new Interceptor looked like, of course—they were the talk of the fleet. Longer and slimmer than a standard TIE, it looked like it was meant for speed, the old hexagonal TIE panels pared down and angled into a double-point at the front, with wide cut-aways to improve view and lower its target profile. Sleek and sexy, it looked dangerous even sitting still.

Han slowed as he approached, noting the small side-fins—something he'd not seen before, even on an Interceptor. "What's with the side-wings?"

"These are variants," the kid said, running his hand along the main panel as they reached its nose. "Royal Guard Interceptors."

"RG Interceptors are red."

The kid glanced momentarily to him. "They're red when Royal Guards fly them."

"No one except Royal Guards fly them."

"And Hands," the kid said coolly. "Emperor's Hands. We need fighters with lightspeed sometimes—that's what the side fins are for; they stabilize it in lightspeed."

"Wait, these have lightspeed?"

"And shields." Luke grinned as he popped the small hatch in invitation. "You won't be so excited when you see how much room you've lost in the cockpit, though."

Something kicked in the center of Han's chest as he got inside the Interceptor, forced to hunker down to get past the extra mechanics and into the form-hugging acceleration seat. This was it—he was in an actual Interceptor…a variant, no less! He rested his hands on the yoke, grinning at the blood rush. Probably unhealthy to get this excited about a ship, but hell, any pilot would understand! The kid leaned in to the constricted space behind him, all business.

"Okay, you have six guns…"

"Six!" Han crowed.

"Yeah, but don't fire them all at once unless it's life or death, 'cos if you do sustained bursts with all six, you'll deplete your power way faster than you can generate it. You can dump power over from shields, but obviously if you're in a situation that needs six guns firing you'll also need shields, so shunting power away from them'll make it life or death anyway. Best to stick to your four wing guns."

"Really?" Han asked, disappointed.

Luke raised his eyebrows. "You know we're not actually gonna be shooting anything out there, right? There's one X-wing."

"One X-wing counts."

"Except that we're not destroying it."

Han scowled, feeling that his toys were being taken away one at a time. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I need it in one piece."

"Well then why don't you just tractor it in?"

The kid tilted his head. "You want a practice run in an Interceptor or not?"

Han glanced back to the controls, fingers already tightening possessively about the yoke. "No shooting it, right."

"Okay," Luke said. "Uh…it handles more or less the same as a standard TIE, just a little more jittery. But you've got a lower target profile and better mark-one visibility, because of the bent and cut wing."

Han grinned; kid must have had some regular TIE training somewhere. On every training course he knew, the 'mark-one visibility aid' joke was always rolled out for the cadets: the mark-one was your eyes.

Luke leaned into the cockpit to point at the console as he continued. "All the instruments are in the same place on the yoke. Scans and ops are on the same side panels. You have a new shield panel here—just leave it on standard for now and try not to get shot…or, you know, fly into an asteroid."

Han half turned, insulted. "Thanks, I think I was planning on that anyway."

"Oh, and don't try to adjust your seat with that center front pull…"

"What is it?" Han leaned forward, fumbling to find a simple bar-pull.

"It's your eject. They moved it from the side."

"Why?"

"I dunno. Maybe they like to keep us on our toes in high-pressure situations—if you don't remember it's changed and grab to the side instead of the front, you probably missed your chance." Kid grinned irreverently. "Call it natural selection."

"Great," Han deadpanned.

"When we get out, pull a few turns and loops, and get your throttle back a few times. You have two five-point-six engines, so your top speed's way higher than a standard TIE, plus you'll turn much tighter—you'll turn inside pretty much every craft flying at the moment, even the TIE advanced, and you're still more stable in thrust vectoring. You can angle off tighter and maneuver better at lower speeds, so your course reversal's sharper on any vector, including dead-stop. I've seen a Hoersch-Kessel R-forty-one come close on near-stall maneuverability—not to me, you understand," the kid felt the need to add. "But you can still take them on a spiral dive and force them into a spinout. You can get a degree or two more by manipulating your deflectors, but that's too complicated to explain right now. Just stick with them on auto."

And there it was—there it'd been all along: the kid liked to fly. Han could hear it in his voice, could see it in his every move as he sharpened with adrenaline and enthusiasm—the passion, the draw. Probably the reason why he'd bothered to speak to Han at all, in that cell in the stormtrooper's sector-house that first night. He'd known then that Han was a pilot—enough to name Han's training course from the unit patch on his jacket.

Realizing that he was under scrutiny the kid looked curiously to Han, who turned quickly away, bringing his mind back to the moment. "There'd better be a flight manual waiting on my system when I get back to my quarters," he grumbled, feeling he was missing out here.

"Who says you're ever flying this again?"

"Oh, I'm flying this baby again."

Luke let out a laugh as he pulled back—a genuine laugh, and how often did that happen! And a little bit of that same excitement that had sounded in Han's voice lit the kid's eye as he grinned; the anticipation of getting out there and flying. "I'll see you spaceside."

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my website, where there's a little extra bonus - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page, or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	12. Chapter 12

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**CHAPTER TWELVE**

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It wasn't Han's best exit from a fighter hangar, but it sure as hell was the most fun. The Interceptor skewed wildly as he overcompensated those five-point-six engines when the overhead grapples released, and shot out of the hangar like a spooked mynock. Still in gravity, Han felt the kick pull at the center of his guts and laughed out loud, gripping at the twitchy yoke and trying to keep her straight as they cleared the huge inset bay entry into open space beneath the _Immortal_.

Just ahead of him, Luke's Interceptor waggled its wings in a brief wave as his voice came over the comm, loaded with wayward mischief. "Wanna play tag?"

He pulled an almost ninety degree snap-reversal to peel to the side as he spoke, dropping instantly from Han's sight, knowing just exactly where the Interceptor's blind spots were. Game for the gauntlet the kid had thrown down, Han set Luke's fighter as a spook on his system and eased his stick back to drop a little speed as he peeled away, then accelerated rapidly into a J-turn. The volatile Interceptor slewed erratically before he managed to wrestle her back and level her up, and somewhere in there he'd ended up overshooting as the kid pulled a sneaky wide turn outside of Han's trajectory, so that all he needed to do was bring his nose up to drop into a kill position on Han's tail.

Grinning, feeling like a cadet in the flight simulator, Han juked his own stick to the side and yanked his fighter into a course reversal, twisting upside down as he yawed wide of the kid's curving flight path to lose distance without sacrificing speed. He was getting a feel for the frisky controls as he nudged his Interceptor's nose in towards Luke, looking for the fleeting opportunity to pull off that imaginary snap-shot at his opponent as their flight paths briefly crossed…and whaddaya know—the kid was actually a good pilot. In fact the longer Han maneuvered, pulling every trick he knew without ever quite getting the kid in his sights, the more realized that he was actually pretty damn good.

Almost in his crosshairs, Luke pulled a full barrel roll with reverse thrust, dropping speed rapidly to disappear from view as he spun about Han's TIE's panels, so that he showed up only on the head's up display inside Han's helmet which compensated for blind spots, the sole indicator as to where he was. He halted the roll directly below Han's fighter, his marker on Han's HUD changing from yellow to amber as he became a threat.

Han overcooked his next twisting vector reversal by a few clicks, but the stalemate of reversals and overshoots was habitually halted when both pilots automatically broke because Han—and apparently the kid—had always had it drummed into him through long hours of training that you never made more than three reversals in combat. It was the kid, more used to the Interceptor's hair-fine controls, who brought his TIE back around on vectored thrust to fly in phase with Han's, inverting his own fighter so that he sat upside down, directly above Han's. Used to a standard TIE-li's larger hexagonal panels, Han automatically swerved from what would have been a collision in his old TIE.

The kid maintained his position inverted over Han's canopy a few seconds more before he pulled smoothly out and levelled up beside him, his voice coming in over the comm.

"You're not bad—not bad at all."

"Not bad?" There wasn't a whole lot of his military career that Han was confident about, but he knew he could fly. He'd been picked out of standard flight training to go to Carida, who took only the top ten percent and graduated only the top five, and while his 'attitude problems' had meant that he'd missed his chance at any of the elite squadrons like Alpha or the 181st, he knew damn well he could fly as well as any one of them. "On behalf of the Carida Imperial Academy Air Corps, I thank you."

"Please, they didn't teach you to fly," the kid dismissed. "Not like that. They just polished off the rough edges and gave names to the stuff you'd been doing for years."

"Voice of experience?" Han pushed.

"Our X-wing's three clicks forward at eight on the dial. You have him on your scopes?"

Han took a second to frown at the kid's reply before he realized that their comm would be open to the Destroyer's bridge, and the kid was being as tight-lipped as ever. He wondered for the first time whether it was even genuine, or just an automatic reaction to close up. It also occurred to him that they would have seen the little aerial dogfight from the bridge, but he knew from long experience that in general, as long as you sounded bored and indifferent, bridge officers who'd never piloted a fighter in their lives took pretty much anything you did as normal and, not wanting to look like they were out of the loop, didn't ask too many questions.

"Yeah, copy that I-One. I've got him on my scopes now."

"Okay, let's pull in nice and slow and play it as routine, shall we. You fly wide and sit on his nose—that ought to get his attention."

The X-wing was, to all intents and purposes, dead in space, so Han peeled away from the kid and took a wide turn to come round in full view of the X-wing, holding just high enough that he remained above its firing line. That was the problem with fixed-gun fighters, and all TIE pilots loved 'em for it; they could only shoot where they were pointing. Unlike a TIE's revolving laser canon, if you sat five degrees out of an X-wing's vector, you were out of their line of fire, too. He took his time to reverse forward thrust and come to a slow halt before the dead fighter, and in the last few seconds, his cockpit sensors sensors lit up to register lifesigns.

For a second, Han thought it was just because they'd finally gotten close enough to overcome the metal content in the asteroids, but looking up, he saw a flash of bright silver in the X-wing cockpit, and realized that the pilot was bundling away his planetside camo cover, which would have rendered the fighter invisible to scans if it was powered down…that must be what he'd been using to mask his lifesigns, wrapping it about himself inside his cockpit; clever. Han came to a full stop close enough to see the two yellow and black checkerboard sections painted on the pilot's white helmet, and make out a worried face with a dark moustache.

His helmet comm double-clicked to an open channel as the kid's voice came over.

"Unidentified ship, this is Lieutenant Commander Solo of the ISD _Immortal_. Our scans are a little off, but your transponder seems to be inoperative. Do you have comms?"

Han scowled at the kid's use of his name, but didn't interfere. The airways remained silent for far longer than he'd've left it. Kid was probably letting the pilot sweat a little.

"Unidentified ship," Luke repeated. "You seem to be in full power-down without comms, so we're just gonna go ahead and tractor you into the _Immortal_ to check your…"

Han nodded dryly as, with a crackle, the unknown pilot seemed to magically find his comm. "Uh, this is CorSec X-wing K-three-nine-nine-two. I'm presently running—or rather, not—on a blown power generator. I have…"

CorSec, the Corellian Sector's local law enforcement; Han knew it well from his days with Shrike. Luke cut in over the pilot to voice the same question that was on Han's lips, his tone businesslike.

"CorSec, you're a way outside of your planet's authorized jurisdiction zone, but we can take you onboard the _Immortal_ and have our people look at that generator."

"Uh…thanks, but I have a retrieval team on their way now. I'll just wait it out."

The X-wing was powering up what few active systems it had, Han noted, as he allowed his nice new Interceptor to slowly drift a little further from its guns. CorSec his ass; they kept their X-wings in better repair than this one, which looked like it had spent a while outside of its comfortable repair quota. Didn't have CorSec markings either, which Han remembered well—generally from fleeting glimpses when Shrike was trying to outrun them.

"Do you have an ETA on their arrival?" Luke asked. "Cos you gotta be getting pretty cold out here."

"Uh…pretty damn soon, I'm hoping," the voice came back with obvious feeling.

Allowing his TIE to drift slowly to the side under its own inertia, Han noticed that the kid had let his own TIE slide close up behind the X-wing in a perfect angle-off-tail kill position. With the pilot's eyes on Han—whom he probably assumed was talking—and those same wave-scattering effects of the asteroid that the X-wing had used to near-success now blinding himself too, he likely didn't even know exactly where Han's 'wingman' was. Something pale flashed momentarily in the open space between the TIE and the X-wing, but by the time Han had squinted to try to see, it was already gone.

The kid was speaking again, voice still casually pleasant. "If you're sure, CorSec, we'll leave you to…"

The next second the proximity sensors inside Han's TIE blared as a group of ships emerged from lightspeed almost on top of and behind them. The three fighters came in hot, two already opening fire on Han's tail as he yanked his TIE to the side, cursing. To add insult to injury, the dead X-wing managed to rustle up enough power to pull off a fast shot from one gun, close enough to buckle Han's shields and snick the front edge of his TIE's panel with a metallic clang which rocked her wildly.

Han accelerated into a split-s heading away from his attackers as the kid powered towards them, pulling off three fast snap-shots over Han's head before he broke high, already gone from Han's view.

"Spearheads," Luke snapped, of the small, dart-shaped one-man fighters.

Han cursed roundly, still unable to see; his scopes had ID'd the leading attacker as an X-wing, but the other two craft were listed as unknowns, their type not entered into the TIE's database yet—though Han had heard their name muttered in the pilot's mess.

"They're a Rebel prototype based on the Actis Interceptor," the kid supplied, voice tight. "Fast!"

"No kiddin', junior!"

The asteroid field was already twisting in his vision as Han powered forward, those ridiculously fierce engines kicking like a bomb at his back so that he almost tail-spun through his evasive split-s, twisting his TIE onto its head as he vectored the nozzles to pull a tight u-bend, looking to get back into the fight.

By the time he'd turned sufficiently to see what was happening, the kid was a distance away at his three o'clock, forcing Han to pull an inward turnabout which lost him yet more speed in the turn, aware that because Luke had flown in to take the flack and the pressure off Han's vulnerable position, the kid now had three threats sitting on his tail and looking for a kill. At least he'd had the good sense not to just put all power to his engines and keep on vectoring away, which would have left him with three fighters on his back and no wingman. Instead, he'd pushed his TIE into a spiral dive, keeping the combat close enough that Han could reach it before it became just a speck in the dark.

He could see the Spearheads clearer now, trailing the attacking X-wing; small and flat, they weren't much more than a cockpit and two engines, with massive vertical vectoring rudders at their stern. Dark russet red with white wings, they had no markings, but then Han didn't need to see any. Only Rebels came out with their guns blazing—even smugglers had the good grace to try to sneak by before they opened fire.

The kid was pulling an incredibly tight turn as he corkscrewed down, gambling on the fact that his nimble Interceptor could remain inside the X-wing or the Spearhead's turn radius to prevent them getting a lock on him. As Han closed there was a point at which the group's tight spiral crossed directly in front of Han's trajectory, bright green tracers of the Spearheads' guns firing just wide of their target, the X-wing closer still…and Han realized his opportunity, wondering if the kid had done it on purpose. Dropping neatly in behind the Spearheads, both of whose attention remained on their target, and both of whom had slowed to try to match the TIE's tight turn, Han flicked up the toggle for live fire and caught the last Spearhead in a sustained burst with four guns, taking its shields down and igniting its engines before it even knew what had happened. It exploded in a bright ball of energy as the remaining Spearhead and the X-wing broke into a defensive split, one high and one low. The kid immediately took his TIE into a descending half-roll after the X-wing, vectoring thrust to pull tighter, and for a second Han watched the Spearhead peel off, aware that it would have been the easier target, for him if not for the kid. But the opportunity was already gone by the time he'd completed the thought, and he brought his nose down to drop in behind the kid's wing, watching to make sure the high Spearhead didn't come back round to cause trouble.

The X-wing they were following was clearly Group Leader, and very, very good. With two TIE's on his back he yanked his fighter on a near ninety-degree turn, then twisted into a fast aileron roll in an effort to lose his tail. In front of Han, the kid pulled a rollaway to keep in tight behind the X-wing as Han cursed and yanked back on his stick so that he wouldn't overshoot and turn from the tail to the target, forced to split his attention further as a voice came over his comm.

"TIE Leader, this is ISD _Immortal _Flight Control. Be aware, you have four new hostiles in the arena."

"No, really?" Han growled to himself.

"We're sending gunboats out to your position as backup—maintain your present…"

"Negative, Flight." Luke's voice, clipped as he split his attention. "No back-up."

Han flicked his comm to a private line. "No back-up? You're not…wait, _four_ hostiles?"

He craned his neck, but needn't have bothered. As their loop took them around to face the distant, still dead in space X-wing, the only thing Han was looking at was a massive CR90 transport, nestling up close enough to render the dead X-wing a speck beneath it.

"Hey, that's our lead!" Han yelled of the dead-in-space X-wing. Though he wasn't stupid enough to break from formation, he reflexively jerked at the stick, causing his TIE to yaw slightly as the kid's voice came over the comm.

"Let them go."

The _Immortal_ chose that moment to launch a warning volley across the Rebel corvette's bow, and once again the kid was splitting his attention, voice raising. "_Immortal_, this is TIE Leader; ceasefire, I repeat, ceasefire!"

"What?" Han shouted. "But they're loading our X-wing into their corvette!"

"I know. Let them go!"

Han glanced back to the kid's TIE…and realized just how closely he was sitting on the X-wing's tail. The Rebel was a damn good pilot in a nimble craft, but Han knew the kid's abilities now, and the fact that his short bursts of fire were going wide just didn't add up to the perfect kill position Luke had lined up. Kid was missing on purpose.

"TIE Leader, this is Flight. Sorry, that back-up order is from the bridge—we're launching now."

"Negative, Flight, call them back!" Luke yelled. "Who gave that order?"

"Luke?" Indo's voice came over the comm and Han cursed; he couldn't even leave the kid alone out here!

"Call the gunboats back."

"No. You need back up. Captain Roth has issued the order for…"

"No, I need you to do as I order!"

Luke was pulling further back now, giving the X-wing more room to maneuver. Not surprisingly, it made a fast inward break—and rather than try to follow, Luke inverted into a tight pull-up as Han scowled, watching the kid's TIE lift from view.

"Hey, what th—"

"Break!"

Han had realized before the kid had spoken, and was already pulling a fast rolling dip to drop down, automatically completing the defensive split. A second later that damn Spearhead came screaming in from Han's tail, making him juke his stick and throttle out a burst of speed to get outside its range. As it was the Spearhead didn't try for either TIE, instead overshooting and straightening up close to his comrade as, in a brief, bright flare, the distant corvette hit lightspeed. A second later, both Rebel subnoses did the same, leaving Han to blink rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

"They took our damn X-wing!" Han slammed his palm into his yoke, making his TIE jolt briefly.

"TIEs, this is Flight. We have your back up out of the hangar; ETA's point-five."

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By the time Han had squeezed through the limited cockpit of his Interceptor and wriggled free, the kid was already out, down from the gantry and striding towards Indo, who had been waiting in the hangar.

"Don't _ever_ interfere with or countermand my order again!" As he yelled, Luke threw his helmet across the hangar floor, fuming.

Indo was, as ever, unmoved. "You expect me to leave you in a combat situation with insufficient back up?"

"I expect you to do as I order. I don't need your protection—I don't need anybody's protection!"

Indo glanced once to the helmet as it skittered across the floor. "Don't throw your equipment around like a child in a tantrum."

"What the hell were you doing countermanding my order? I said no back up."

"I am, I believe, still responsible for your safety until otherwise instructed by the Emperor. I considered one wingman insufficient. Captain Roth agreed."

The kid had reached Indo now, still livid. "I had my reasons, and it's immaterial anyway. I said no back up. I could have taken them all out myself at any time, and you know it."

"And the corvette?"

"I was out of the corvette's range! If you knew combat vessel statistics, you would have known that, but you don't."

"That's hardly the point."

"That's exactly the point! I gave an order in a combat situation—a situation you weren't directly involved in and had no detailed knowledge of—and you overrode it without the authority to do so. I'm not a child any more."

Indo tilted his head just slightly. "Then stop acting like one. If you had an intention…"

"Of course I had an intention!"

"Then you should have informed me. If you don't tell people what…."

"No." The kid shook his head. "Immaterial. I still outrank you."

"I hold a direct mandate from the Emperor himself."

"And I don't?"

Indo glanced about. "This isn't the place."

Luke reined himself back slightly, voice dropping though he was still fuming. "I was in the air, directly involved, with specialist knowledge. You had no idea what was going on, yet you still overrode me. You constantly push me to make that assessment, take the initiative…and when I do, you undermine me."

"You lost the fighter. You could easily have lost your…"

"I didn't lose it, I tagged it."

Han had the rare treat of seeing Indo momentarily stumped. "…What?"

"I tagged it. I knew they'd come for it—it was dead in space, you think it hadn't already sent off an SOS?"

"You tagged it?"

"Obviously they'd send back-up. They can't afford to lose ships or pilots like that. But we'd already been trawling the edge of the asteroid field, so the pilot knew we were here. We had to react…but as routine! As a Destroyer and its crew going through the motions. What do you think a wing of gunboats would have looked like, trooping out of the bay?"

Indo glanced briefly to Han, who remained silent, though this was news to him too.

"When exactly did you tag it?"

"When the pilot was watching Solo. I took a Seinar 560 homing beacon and stuck it on my own hull before takeoff, then used the Force to transfer it to his. I slid it into the multicap grill plates of the foil block—no one'll find it unless they disassemble the drive, and a 560 doesn't operate unless it's in an oxygen-free atmosphere—deep space. It won't transmit when it's in their bay, so they won't be looking for it. I want to know where that X-wing came from…which is probably where it's returning to right now."

"If you had told me of your intent…"

"I made the decision on the way to the bay. I didn't want to do it over ship's comms once we were out there, and much as you don't like it, it's not my job to tell you everything I intend. I'm not answerable to you…only to Palpatine." Luke lifted his hand, finger outstretched. "I had the situation under control. _Don't_ undermine or countermand my orders again."

He didn't wait for a reply, turning about to walk from the bay without pause.

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Han held Indo's gaze for a second before he turned to leave at the kid's side. As he did so, Luke's helmet, still where it had landed halfway across the bay, lifted and launched smoothly towards the kid's outstretched hand. They were out of the bay before Han murmured, "Did you know those other fighters were gonna arrive when they did?"

"Hell, no. I thought we'd be long gone by then," the kid replied without turning round.

"Thought so," Han nodded, not even slightly surprised.

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By the time Han and the kid had changed and made it up to the bridge, the _Immortal_ was back at the original point where they'd seen the isolated power spike. Interestingly, none of the officers or pit crew seemed too impressed by the fact that a sixteen-year-old kid had just flown a TIE Interceptor in combat and escaped unharmed…but then, Han remembered Gorn mentioning once that the _Immortal_ was their 'usual ride.' Clearly, though no one knew quite what he was, they all knew what he wasn't—your average sixteen-year-old.

Now, Luke was standing before the run of triangular viewports again, staring at the tumbling drift of asteroids as the _Immortal_ waited to see if they'd get another power signature.

They'd been here for over two hours, waiting, and stoic as Captain Roth undoubtedly was, he was looking to get moving again.

"It could have been a ghost," he said confidently from Luke's side, as he stared into the asteroid field. "Or a sensor aberration, from seismic activity within one of the higher metal content asteroids…"

Luke turned slightly to the Captain. "So what you're saying is, you don't know."

Roth straightened slightly. "I'm saying that given the brief nature of the pulse and the fact that it hasn't repeated, it's unlikely to have been by design."

Han watched the kid continue to stare out of the window at the Drift without acknowledging Roth, eyes scanning. Eventually getting the signal the kid was all but blaring, Roth moved off, jaw tensed.

Han too turned to stare, aware that they'd reached an impasse. Though they were at the same position that they'd gotten the brief signal that morning, the view had completely changed as the natural drift of the asteroids had turned and tumbled them about, bringing some forward and removing others completely.

Indo stepped closer to Luke, his voice quiet enough that even Han barely heard it. "Luke, you need to move this situation forward."

"I'm thinking."

Han half-turned to throw a dry look the Viscount's way; apparently Luke's explosion an hour earlier hadn't done anything to dampen Indo's willingness to nag the kid. How the hell was he supposed to move forward when he had nothing to go on? They were still waiting for the first burst from the tracker which Luke had planted on the Rebel fighter. Wherever it was, it would have to come out of lightspeed, and the fighter would have to be back in space—or at least a bay open to space and therefore oxygen-free—before its transmitter triggered, and it wasn't, yet. Until it did, they were playing a waiting game, 'cos the fact was, you couldn't make things happen out of thin air. There was no real way to…

The kid turned to Captain Roth. "Contact the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. Have them send a message to Project Nine, requesting an immediate response. They need Project Nine to repeat any message sent in the last week; a sustained signal back to Coruscant for one minute."

Han frowned, knowing now that Project Nine was the code name for the Maw Installation. He looked quickly to Luke, realizing that the kid was still trying to tie all that had happened, back to the dead spy on Coruscant; the Maw Installation ran its comms to Coruscant through Sinto Base, and Luke was looking for a common link.

Han stepped in, keeping his voice low as the Captain moved away to give the order. "You think something's out there?"

Luke glanced to him briefly, then back out into the slow tumble of the Drift. "Why else would an X-wing be this far out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Maybe this was just where his drive system gave out." He didn't say the obvious; that if they'd taken the pilot in, instead of tagging him, they might have known by now.

Luke shook his head. "He was here for a reason. Whatever it was, he'd already done it, because he couldn't believe his own bad luck at his engines having failed, and then our arrival… And the three Spearheads—they came out of hyperspace hot, weapons armed. They knew we were there."

"The X-wing had been fully powered down when we arrived," Han said. Fully powered down, with its engines so cold that they hadn't shown up on scans. Which meant that it had been without power for a while. And if it had sent any kind of comm off, the _Immortal_ would have picked it up immediately anyway, long before it picked the actual X-wing up on even long-range scans. "There's somebody else—there's someone else out there who sent the message as soon as we came out of lightspeed!"

At that moment, the comm officer spoke out. "Sir, I have the signal again! Four point five clicks from its previous position."

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It turned out to be a shielded listening base in one of the deeper craters of the asteroid they'd originally identified, when the first small power surge had briefly flared. With the sustained burst communiqué from Maw Installation keeping it active for a full minute as the base systems automatically responded to the incoming signal, they didn't have any problems locking its position down. It was small—in fact it was tiny, no more than a double-story airtight prefab half-buried below ground, and a receiving dish, all painted a broken camo black to melt them into the surrounding shadows.

Luke had already pushed to have two TIE bombers do a fly-over whilst the assault shuttle loaded up with stormtroopers, requesting that the bombers destroy any transports they saw but leave the prefab intact. He was heading off the bridge, intending to go down onboard one of the assault shuttles, when the pit comm officer spoke up. "Sir, you have a communiqué from Coruscant."

He turned, surprised. "Source?"

"I have a code only—nine-six-two."

Luke nodded, setting back instantly to the rear of the bridge. "Patch the communiqué through to Comm One, I'll take it there." He glanced once to Captain Roth. "And tell your men I want prisoners—I can't interrogate a corpse."

Han watched Indo set off the bridge a step behind the kid…then followed, rushing to keep up.

Comm One was the largest holo on the Destroyer, generally used to project starcharts for inter-ship tactical analysis, so Han was familiar with the size of the dark-walled chamber—a good three stories in height and roughly circular. It had no chairs—if you were a pilot on a briefing, you were expected to stand. After some of the more long-winded briefings Han had attended on an assortment of tours of duty, he suspected it had been to stop you from falling asleep.

Today only Indo and the kid were ahead of him as he entered, the holoprojector already active but not transmitting, and the raised circular transmission platform glowed in a fine band about its edge, indicating that it was active. Luke paused at the small console to the edge of the room to input a code—probably a cipher—then stepped calmly forward.

He should have known; should have realized who it was when the kid stepped onto the transmitter and dropped to one knee, head down. Still, when the Emperor's face appeared a second later, taking the entire height of the projection area so that it loomed over Luke, Han still took an involuntary step back.

"Tell me the details," the Emperor intoned, as if this were the remainder of a half-finished conversation.

Luke straightened without hesitation. "Master, we tracked the lead back to the Cron Drift, in the Outer Rim. There's a Rebel base hidden at the edge of the asteroid field—just a few people. Troops are going in now."

"The Rebel fighter?"

Han turned to glare at Indo, sure the Viscount must have contacted the Emperor whilst he and Luke were returning to the ship, since Luke had sent no transmissions since. As it was, the kid nodded casually, as if this too were part of an ongoing conversation. A stray memory fired, of the kid saying that one of the other Emperor's Hands had the ability to contact the Emperor over extended distances using the Force—of Luke's admission another time that the Emperor had taught him too to 'hear' voices, and to tune into his Master's mental sense in order to block them out. Could the kid do that over extended distances, as he'd said the other Hand had been taught to do?

"I allowed the fighter to escape, Master. We're waiting to pick up a signal from the homing beacon."

"And your connection between the Rebel base and Sinto?"

"The Cron Drift base must have been set up to infiltrate and monitor the communications line between the Maw Installation and Coruscant. We had the Maw send a test transmission, and it came into the Rebel base in the Cron Drift almost simultaneously with Coruscant. Once they had this base running, they would have needed the ciphers to decode what they had, so they had to recruit someone inside Sinto Base to get the codes out. We can confirm this when we download the Rebel base's logs."

"How long was the base running; have they passed on information already?"

"I'll be able to tell you more precisely when we get the Rebel prisoners from the base onboard the _Immortal_, Master."

Palpatine's chin twitched in annoyance. On this scale, those ochre eyes passed on every nuance of their caustic displeasure. "Interrogate them. I want all the information by morning. When you're done, if they're still alive…kill them."

Han glanced to Indo, who stood to the edge of the room beside him, but the Viscount remained still and silent, expression inscrutable as ever. Before him, the kid dropped his head in a standing bow. "Yes, Master."

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The small, bare interrogation cell on the third level of the detention center was painted drab gray, with one standard chair, in front of which was a small table, and another, larger upright chair to the center of the room, fitted with restraints. Han had stepped in beside the kid before he even realized what it was, watching Luke take a datapad from an officer outside without comment, head down as he scanned it whilst the door before him lifted.

They always made the doors on Imperial cells low, so that you had to stoop to get inside the cells. Psychology, they said. As it was, the kid didn't need to bother, so slight was he.

The Rebel, one of two taken alive, was already there when they entered, stripped of his clothes and wearing a gray jumpsuit that no one had bothered to fasten, the restraints set into the arms and legs of the interrogation chair already locked, holding him still.

Luke looked up only once from the datapad, and that was to dismiss the two stormtroopers who stood to either side of the door. He sat in the chair opposite the Rebel as Han hovered to the back of the room, deeply uneasy. Unlike the kid, he couldn't help but glance to the bound prisoner, frowning and looking down as the man's eyes lifted to him, a bruise already darkening where someone had landed a blow to one side of his head.

Luke remained silent for a long time, reading, as the man pulled subtly at the restraints on his wrists, deeply wary, and probably uncertain just what exactly a kid was doing here. Han's thoughts went uneasily back to the previous time the kid had faced a prisoner, on Sinto Base, and in the extended silence he could feel his stomach wind slowly tighter. Finally the kid looked up, his tone brusque and businesslike but not unpleasant.

"Okay, from what we can see, you broke into the S-T commsat chain near Gand and installed your own stolen and altered Imperial satellite, set up to transmit to your station in the Drift. I just need to verify how long you've been set up, how much data you've passed on, and what it was."

The man remained silent. Man—he wasn't much older than Luke, maybe twenty at the most. When had wars become this; kids, dragged into an adult world too soon, veterans before their teens were out. Han wasn't quite thirty and he felt old, watching this meeting of seasoned enemies.

Luke straightened to place the datapad down, taking unnecessary time to allign its outer edge to the edge of the table. "You understand—you didn't manage to erase your station's system. It'll take us a day or so to put the information you just tried to blank back together, but we will. Every piece. So all we're really talking is a time scale of a few days. Either you tell me now, after which I put you back in your cell and report to my superiors, and we both get a good night's sleep tonight, or this gets the kind of messy that involves blood and bone…not mine."

Luke gave him a good long time to answer, but the Rebel remained silent, holding his eye without flinching. Eventually he leaned forward to scroll down the datapad. "Your friend has Commander Isman next door. You have me, which is…unfortunate. It's unfortunate because I've worked with Commander Isman before, and I know for a fact that he'll keep your friend alive at the very least through the night. Knowing that I have Commander Isman and your friend to fall back on, I may not be nearly as conscientious."

Silence… Luke looked up to the man, who flexed his jaw, lips narrowing. The kid sat back and sighed, giving another long pause before he spoke.

"See, the fact is, I don't particularly like Commander Isman, so I have no intention of letting him come out of his interrogation session with more information than I get out of you. Call it conceit, call it competitive spirit, call it professional pride…call it plain bad luck on your part. Call it a foregone conclusion. But we are gonna win." Luke glanced down to the datapad, then looked up again, amused. "Keev Kline…really?"

"Kutabare."

Han didn't know the language, but an insult sounded like an insult no matter where in the galaxy it came from. Luke let the silence hang a heartbeat, and Han felt his own throat constricting as the tension upped a notch. Remaining seated, the kid tipped his head, coolly dismissive.

"Now why would you do that—why would you throw insults, in a situation in which you know they won't be tolerated? Why do that, when you know there'll be reprisals? Didn't they teach you how to withstand interrogation, Keev? That you never antagonize the man who has the power of life and a very painful death over you."

"Kutabare, o baka ze."

Luke placed the memopad carefully back on the edge of the table before glancing down to rub at his eyes for a second, as if weary… He looked up sharply—

The restraint chair that the man was strapped to jerked violently back the length of the room to hit the far wall heavily as the Rebel doubled over forwards, his body folding as if the blow had hit him with enough power to send both himself and the chair reeling. The chair's impact dragged him momentarily upright to whiplash back so that his head hit the wall behind him with a heavy thud, before he doubled back over, struggling to drag in rasping breaths against the shock of the invisible blow.

Luke remained still, waiting without emotion as the man gasped, trying futilely to lift his hand to his face where his nose had started to bleed…and the kid just watched. Han's heart was pounding, his own breath coming short, body locked to the spot as the kid waited until the hunched Rebel lifted his head.

Kid smiled just slightly. "Want to say that again?"

The man remained silent, his labored breathing spraying the blood which flowed unchecked from his nose out in a fine spray before him to speckle across the knees of the pale gray prison-issue jumpsuit he wore.

Luke rose…and the restraint chair dragged quickly forward with an ear-rending screech over the polished floor to stop directly in front of him at the very moment that he bent down, arms extended with perfect timing to rest on the shocked prisoner's bound wrists as the chair jerked to a halt. "Namen ja neyo, Keev—kakko tsukenna-yo. Because I know what you're saying…in fact, I even know what you're thinking—which is why I know you speak Basic. But then, to me, thinking something and saying it are the same thing anyway, and whilst you've learned the great good sense to keep your mouth shut, you can't close your mind—not to me."

The chair rocked unsteadily on the spot and the man stiffened and let out a broken, breathless yelp as he braced—against what pain, Han didn't know. His chest locked for long seconds, eyes wide, every muscle taut…before his head finally dropped loose in release as he fell to heavy, broken gasps. Luke remained just inches from his face, completely unmoved, waiting until he seemed to have enough awareness of his surroundings to try to lift his head again.

"Remember that I told you it was unfortunate that you had me, Keev? What I meant was, it's unfortunate that you have a Sith. An actual Sith. Someone who can, and will, make your last hours in this galaxy the most gruelling, agonizing experience of your life. Myself, I couldn't care less either way, but you might want to change that. And you can, very easily." His icy voice became calm with coaxing reason. "All you have to do is tell me how long the listening post has been there and what you've passed on. That's it. Nothing about your Rebellion, nothing about its locations or its numbers—just that. That buys your life, Keev. Because believe me, if you don't tell me, then the man in the other interrogation cell will, to buy his own life. And that makes you not only surplus to requirement, but the awkward one. The irritating one. The one I'm gonna vent all my frustrations on—probably once I've brought your friend in here, just to make sure he understands how bad it can get. All for the sake of a day…one day. We'll have the information in one day anyway. You're not helping anyone by keeping hold of it, Keev. You're certainly not helping yourself."

"No…" The man's voice was a wounded gasp, but he pulled it up from the depths of his spirit and Han knew he meant it—that this was the start.

Hands still on the chair arms, Luke leaned back slightly, head tilting to try to catch his eye, though he wouldn't lift his gaze. "No? Wrong, wrong answer, Keev. Kind of answer that hurts…"

The man braced…and Han pushed abruptly off from the wall of the cell. "Just take it—take the information from his mind! You can do that, can't you? Just do it. Make him think about it and just take it out! Stop tormenting him!"

It was only when Luke had straightened to stare, shocked at the outburst, that Han realized just how loud he'd shouted. He stared at the kid, wide eyed, the only sound in the room the heavy, cracked gasps of the Rebel.

He wanted to say it again; to tell the kid to stop, to actually _look_ at what he was doing on someone else's order—a kid, who shouldn't even know places like this existed, let alone excel in them. But he knew all that; Luke already knew all that—had known the moment Han had thought it—and that was what was worst of all.

He turned and pushed clumsily at the door release, stumbling to step underneath that damn door, unable to get away fast enough. From this—from the kid.

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The door to his quarters slid open, though Han remembered locking it, so he knew without turning who was there, casting a long shadow across the darkened room. He took a draft from his drink in silence and without turning, but the kid neither entered nor left him alone, waiting at the threshold. Eventually Han shook his head, not angry, just...telling the truth. Kid would know it anyway…and if he could make sense of what Han felt right now, then he was doing better than Han himself. "Just…go away, huh? I don't want to…I don't want you here right now."

"I had my orders," Luke said quietly.

He couldn't turn—couldn't even look at the kid. "That's not a reason—not enough."

"An order from Palpatine is," Luke murmured quietly.

Han could only shake his head, knowing he couldn't get through to the kid and wondering, in that moment, if he ever would. If it was even worth trying.

The kid moved slightly in the doorway, and Han watched his shadow shift as he lifted his hand to his mouth, chewing compulsively at his thumbnail. Han looked out into the Drift again, draining the glass he held. "Is he dead?"

The shadow twitched slightly, lifting its head. "Yes."

"Did you do it?"

"…Yes. If you want someone dead, it should be by your own hand."

"Palpatine tell you that?"

"No." There was no defense in his quiet voice, only a restrained statement of the facts. "I worked it out myself when I was eleven years old, doing…doing this on Palpatine's command."

It was a second or two before realization percolated into Han's brooding thoughts just what the kid was admitting to—that having been in that situation too often himself, he wouldn't ever take the easy route and just transfer that burden of guilt elsewhere. Not that Palpatine would have had any, but Luke…Luke clearly must, which was why he couldn't pass that order on. And guilt meant that somewhere in there, no matter how battered down or torn between absolute loyalties and private misgivings…was a conscience.

He turned, but the kid had already stepped back, letting the door close to douse the room in darkness again. Bringing his hand up, Han dragged it across his temple and back through his hair, a mighty headache making him clench his jaw. In that moment, he felt like he deserved it.

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There turned out to be a lot of information waiting when Han reached the bridge the following morning, in time for his duty shift. Indo was already with the kid, of course, speaking quietly. Outside, as Han had seen from many viewports now, the maelstrom of lightspeed rolled in twisting chaos, casting bright shafts of light across the bridge and crew pits. Luke didn't turn as Han came to a halt behind him, but kept his attention on the tech station to the outer side of the crew pits, calling up a few screens of information and studying them with exaggerated interest as he spoke to Indo.

"The Rebel listening station was receiving transmissions from a reprogrammed satellite that turns out to have been from a batch stolen a few weeks back over Orron III. The freighter _Pheonix_, which held the stolen commsats, and the Lambda shuttle _Wilsey,_ a known Rebel vessel, were reportedly spotted by the SD _Intrepid_ docking alongside a Rebel Cruiser named _Maximus,_ two weeks ago. The _Maximus_ has been spotted on two occasions flying in formation with an MC80 Mon Cal Cruiser."

"Do we have an ID on the Mon Cal Cruiser?"

"No, but it was an MC80 Star Cruiser. How many can the Rebellion have? It has to be the _Independence."_

"Do you have confirmation on that?"

Luke looked down. "No."

"You can't work on suppositions, Luke."

The kid looked up coolly. "There are ninety-four MC Eighty Star Cruisers in existence—I checked. I can account for ninety of them through regular channels. Of the last four, one is listed as believed used by Black Sun, and one was listed as having been destroyed in the Boralic Nebula two years ago; there was sufficient debris, mechanical and organic, for official channels to be willing to list it as destroyed, all hands lost. That leaves two. Names are irrelevant, but one is almost twenty years old, so there are minor differences in design as technology's changed. Whilst they're both listed as MC80's, one of the unaccountable crusiers is an A class and the other a D. Mon Cal Cruisers are all organic in build; no two are the same—but I looked very closely at the specs last night. Whilst it's possible that the Alliance have two, of the several sightings we've had of Rebel MC Cruisers, it's _always_ been an 80D, in every report or image I found. Sufficient circumstantial evidence?"

Indo didn't reply, but instead stepped closer to study the huge Mon Cal Cruiser, its organic, irregular lines clumsy to human, if not Mon Cal, eyes. "What else do you know—any other possible links to the _Pheonix_?"

Always pushing, Han knew. And the kid seemed more willing to let him today, probably still sore at Han for last night, and falling back on old routines.

"Well, the _Independence_ hasn't had many direct engagements, but it was probably…." He paused, correcting himself. "Statistically, Intel believe that there's a high likelihood that the unidentified Mon Cal Cruiser which was in a skirmish over Turkana, where it faced down Imperial Destroyers using T-65 X-wings, was the _Independence_…so it may not be a coincidence that our damaged Rebel fighter at the Cron Drift was an X-wing. The _Independence_ was also involved in the Brigia fiasco, when Operation Strike Fear was beginning to lose the initiative." Luke glanced subtly about himself, lowering his voice though there was no one close. "If this pans out, and the X-wing is from the _Independence_, then we may well have placed a tracker on the Rebellion's new headquarters frigate, because something as big as an MC80 Cruiser isn't going to be used for small-time haulage. That's the ship they're going to show up in to impress and to drum up support. If they're doing that, then they're likely to be carrying their ringleaders onboard…which means that if the X-wing tracker keeps transmitting, this could be an opportunity well beyond closing down an information leak."

"Have you informed the Emperor?"

"Not yet. I want to see if the X-wing returns to the _Independence_ first."

"How long until we have co-ordinates?"

"We got a brief signal from the tracker in the early hours, which means that the X-wing's hyperspace jump onboard the freighter was well under a day's travel. They presumably transferred the X-wing to its unit's home ship, which is when we got the signal, then it accelerrated to lightspeed soon after. Timewise, that puts them inside the Hydian Borderlands corewards, or Hutt Space, rimwards. We're triangulating now, but making a general jump towards the Halla sector, in Hutt Space."

"Because?" Indo prompted.

"Hutt Space borders on the Tion Hegemony. The Rebels were forced out of that sector by Operation Strike Fear, but they may well have maintained ongoing operations in Hutt Space. I checked the last three months of local system logs, and the Rebels have been all over that area, with repeated attacks on supply convoys, prison vessels, munitions destroyed…communications satellites stolen. I'm surprised there hasn't been a task force assigned already. I cross-referenced the dates that we know the communication satellites were stolen, against the Death Star information which went from the Maw to Coruscant between then and the Sinto spy being caught, and if that's their only source, then they don't have enough intel to go on yet, so they're fishing. They obviously know something's happening out here, they just don't know where exactly, and our removal of their listening post makes it impossible for them to find out any more that way. They have enough information to know that the Death Star's deployment is imminent, but they need more, and they know it. Past information came from Hutt Space…so that's where they'll try first." The kid paused, then shrugged and said it anyway, giving a brief sideways glance to Han without meeting his eyes. "Just a hunch."

As he turned, Han noted the dark circles under Luke's eyes and the paleness of his skin. It hit him now that Indo was looking to be brought up to speed just as much as Han was, whilst the kid had obviously spent a good while on this already. The signal from the tracker had come through in the early hours of the morning, he'd said, and it sounded pretty much like he'd gone to start research immediately. Probably hadn't slept yet, Han realised. And he didn't seem particularly inclined to slow down yet, as he glanced back to the tech panel behind him.

"We'll exit hyperspace from the rough jump in minutes. If we're lucky and this is where they were heading, then the X-wing may be in realspace too, and we'll get another transmission. If not, we're statistically well-placed for when it next transmits."

Indo nodded, mollified, and glanced back to the screen to point at the image of a Rebel freighter. "And the _Wilsey_?"

"Nothing, really—or rather, a lot of small engagements. The involvement of the _Wilsey_ with the _Pheonix, _and therefore the stolen communication satellites, confirmed rough dates before which any information leaks were highly unlikely, though."

"Which you can verify from the cleaned up and reconstructed Rebel logs, right?" Han asked, speaking up at last.

"There were no remaining logs," the kid said simply, still without turning to Han. "The system shred and core dump that the Rebels made before the stormtroopers got in was successful—we have nothing to reconstruct."

Han stared at the kid, aware of what he'd told the Rebel prisoner last night. Of the ease with which he'd lied, completely fooling Han, who knew him well, never mind the Rebel.

"We do have a name on the Rebel X-wing pilot though," Luke continued casually, turning back to key new images onto the tech screen. "I ran the voice print from our little chat through known resources, and identified him with around ninety percent accuracy as one Biggs Darklighter, an ex-Imperial pilot trained at the Prefsbelt Four Naval Academy, and coming from some dirtball planet in the back of beyond—Tatooine, in the Arkanis sector. Apparently he mutinied from the _Rand Ecliptic_, taking not only one D. Klivian—the _Rand_'s executive officer—with him, but also the _Rand Ecliptic_ itself."

"Gets around, huh?" Han murmured, studying the official Imperial ID headshot of Darklighter.

"Let's hope he does so onboard the _Independence_," Luke said.

He nearly turned that time, Han noted. Another few minutes and…

The _Immortal_ dropped out of lightspeed in a lurch of constrained power, internal gravity popping Han's ears and shifting his weight before it caught up. Immediately the pit crew came to life, running through standard procedures as the first buzz of information came in.

"All stop," Captain Roth said from the front of the bridge as a matter of course. "Ops?"

"All systems online, Sir. Controls returned to the bridge. Reversion puts us on target, five thousand cubits from the Halla sector."

Han listened as the ship settled back into sublight routines, knowing that the individual ops stations needed to check in and confirm status before anyone could scan for the homing beacon's signal. Beside him the kid returned to the tech board, keying the console there to scan for the beacon's frequency, too impatient to wait.

"Sir," the comm officer lifted his head towards Captain Roth. "We have incoming updates and…"

"Got it!" Luke exclaimed under his breath, grinning. "Close by—very close. We can triangulate easily from this distance."

Indo leaned in, keeping his own voice low. "How long?"

"Seconds…it's narrowing the signal now."

A run of co-ordinates came up on the screen as Han moved closer, drawn in. "Well?"

Luke pulled up a navigation chart of Hutt Space and pasted the co-ordinates, watching as the system ticked…

Straightening, he looked up with pride—and it was Han that he turned to first, not Indo. "Danuta," he said triumphantly. "They're over Danuta."

In the crew pit, the comms officer stood up, voice tight. "Sir, we have an incoming alert from Danuta, in the Colovas system. The Imperial garrison there is under attack!"

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When you've finished each chapter, you may want to check them out on my website, where there's a little extra bonus - hope you'll enjoy!

There's a link to my website on my bio page, or the address is all the three w's and a dot, then "alongtimeago . org" (and take out the spaces!)

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	13. Chapter 13

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**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

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By the time they'd reached Danuta and gained a geostationary orbit over the Imperial garrison in the planet's capital, Trid, the assault was over and its offensive forces gone. It had been brief and bloody, with massive damage done, and yet the duty officer at the garrison was claiming that there was presently no reason to assume that an incursion into the high-security sections of the base had taken place, maintaining that most of the damage was done by a series of low strafing runs on the base's air corps, and an explosive device to its perimeter, which saw a second wave of attacks designed to destroy the base's AT-ST. The attack on the TIEs had cost ships, but the attack on the base had cost lives, almost thirty soldiers lost when they went to investigate the perimeter bomb, including the base's commander.

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For Captain Roth, the base officer's word was sufficient, but Luke had made the journey down to Trid garrison by shuttle, cursing all the way that their target was already gone and the signal no longer transmitting. More interesting—sufficient to take he, and therefore Han, down to the Trid facility—was the base officer's admission that the attack had apparently been by a civilian craft…though the fact that their Rebel X-wing had been transmitting from Danuta's low orbit meant that there were clearly Rebel craft in position at the time.

They stopped first at the spaceport, where a single craft—a CEC Hawk-290—had made several strafing runs, damaging and downing all TIEs on the ground.

The next obvious stop had been the garrison itself, which had suffered a bomb on the North Perimeter. By now, Luke—going down in his Ubiqtorate uniform—had gained access to the base's incoming data, still collating on the datapad he'd been provided. It hadn't taken long to tie down the bomb and the resultant attack on base personnel who had investigated, to the same Hawk-290.

"Gets around," Han observed dryly.

Commander Byrne, the duty officer who'd made the report to the _Immortal_, turned to glare. "Sufficiently to kill our Officer of the Day, Major Horst, yes."

"And then it landed on the roof?" Luke asked, glancing to the main facility. Roils of dark, acrid-smelling smoke still curled from a few of the buildings, though the fires were already doused.

"Yes, Sir." Byrne's aversion of Han wasn't exclusive, it seemed; he'd also taken a dislike to the Ubiqtorate officer who'd shown up just minutes after the raid, but still made the time to come down to his base and waste time asking questions.

"To pick up…?"

"Sir?"

"The strafing runs were clearly a diversion, and if you had bombs and wanted to damage an Imperial base, you'd place them in the base and not at the perimeter fence. I'm assuming the Hawk didn't just then land on an Imperial garrison's roof for the hell of it. It was picking an incursion team up."

"It now…" Byrne hesitated, glancing away, "it now appears as if the base itself was infiltrated. We're still taking debriefs, to put the facts together. We think the Hawk took its people out."

"So we can assume their mission was a success?"

"Sir?" Byrne asked, through a clamped jaw.

Luke shrugged, holding the datapad up to shade his eyes as he stared at the roof where the Hawk had landed. "A success—otherwise they wouldn't have been retrieving their people."

"We've no reason to assume that," Byrne said, affronted. "There's every chance that they abandoned their mission under pressure."

Luke looked at the man, then back to the continually updating datapad he'd been provided with. "Considering that you don't have a single incoming report to date listing even loosely how many men were in the infiltration unit—meaning that you hadn't properly engaged it—I find it hard to believe that you had them on the run."

The officer jerked straight. "I resent the insinuation that…"

"No insinuation implied, Commander," Luke said boredly, "just an observation. Shall we go inside?"

By the time they got to Main Ops, the picture was starting to come together. There had, it seemed, been just one intruder, who had pretty much waltzed past the South Perimeter gate, managing to stay below the radar until he'd showed up several levels down, where the base's internal security had finally gotten a useable image of him, presently being run through all databases.

"Why isn't there a report from the south perimeter guard station yet?" Luke asked, eyes on the datapad.

"The officer in charge was another of those injured during the attack," Byrne provided. "He's presently in the medicenter."

"I want to speak to him." Luke glanced down as the memopad pipped quietly. "Well, well, well—we have an ID on your intruder: an ex-Imperial trooper named Kyle Katarn. Decorated officer, went AWOL not long ago. Has a warrant out for his arrest on charges of desertion, treason, and murder."

"Rebel?" Han asked.

"Known associate is Jan Ors, who's a confirmed Rebel Intel agent, so based on that and our signal in orbit, I'm guessing it's a safe bet."

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The officer was conscious but still recovering when they arrived, having taken a glancing shot which had put him out cold and in the medicenter. He straightened slightly as Luke and Han entered, followed by Byrne.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Odom. He was in charge of the south perimeter when the attack took place. Odom, we're just following up on the raid, trying to work out what happened."

The man nodded, turning to Han, who coughed and glanced down to the kid in front of him. Odom frowned for a second, then seemed to realize what Han was trying to tell him, and looked at Luke, making a woozy effort to hide his confusion. For a few seconds more he seemed uncertain, then he finally took in the Ubiqtorate uniform and his eyes widened a little.

"Uh…yes, Sir." The man glanced down, blinking himself awake.

"Nothing serious," Luke smiled. "I was just hitching a lift onboard the _Immortal_ when she answered your distress call, so I thought I should earn my keep. You were the officer on duty at the south perimeter, right? Did you see anything?"

"No, I didn't even know until the perimeter had been breached and the alarm sounded, Sir."

"You have no idea how?"

"No, Sir."

"But the perimeter breach sounded?"

"No, Sir, it was the general alarm."

"We're still trying to ascertain how they got into the base," Byrne added. "We came under attack from several fronts."

"But with minimal infiltration, which seems odd."

"Odd?" Byrne asked.

Luke turned to the commander. "It wasn't an attack on the base, otherwise the Rebels could have done a lot more damage. But they left it intact. Presumably because they wanted something specific."

"Maybe they wanted Major Horst," Byrne said curtly.

"Then why not debug as soon as he was killed? Why enter the base at all? They wanted something in the base, and chances are that since they debugged by choice, they have it. So what did you have in your vaults, Commander?"

Byrne straightened. "I'm not at liberty to tell you that, Sir."

"No? Well since you seem reluctant to admit it despite the number of prompts I've given you, let me tell you that I already know you have an Imperial Security Bureau research and storage facility here." Luke didn't even slow as the man's eyes widened. "Has it been breached?"

To his credit, Byrne's face hardened. "I'm not at liberty to tell you that either, Sir."

"No? Then let me tell you; it was, and the memory matrix there was compromised. You've kept that off the reports coming into the datapad you gave me, but from the way you've been quietly panicking, I assume it's been coming in on yours. I won't bother asking you what they were storing here, because you don't know…but I do. And let me tell you, Commander, you have no idea how much trouble you're about to be in. So I hope that the ISB officer you contacted, who persuaded you to falsify information being reported to my datapad, has friends in high places or this could get very sticky. And believe me, that ISB officer, whoever he is, will be intending to come out spotless…which leaves just you. Good luck with that."

Luke turned back to wink at the injured man, who had sat upright in his bed, deeply uncomfortable at seeing his commanding officer dressed down. "See? That wasn't too painful, was it?"

"Uh…no, Sir." He glanced from the kid to Han and back again, obviously at a loss as to what to say as Luke turned for the door. "I uh…I hope you catch him."

"We intend to," Luke nodded…then paused.

Han stumbled to a stop behind him as the kid turned back, head tilted…looking for all the worlds like a predator catching the scent—

"What did you say your name was?"

"Odom, Sir. Meck Odom."

"Odom…" Luke had turned fully now…and he was smiling. Kid never smiled; it made Han sweat when he smiled. "You seem…nervous, Odom?"

"My base was just successfully attacked, I was shot, and now the Ubiqtorate are here, asking me questions…yes, sir, I'm nervous."

Luke nodded as he took a step closer. "Well, your part's over now, you should rest… You took a shot in the raid, right?"

"Yes, sir. Just a glancing blow. I was lucky."

"Very lucky. Left you out cold until now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right…but you didn't see who took the shot?"

"No, sir, didn't even see it coming."

"Not even a glance?"

"Sorry, sir."

The silence stretched too long as the kid stared at Odom, who recoiled slowly, deeply unsettled. Finally Luke straightened, new strength in his voice, his brief play of genial interest completely gone. "Stand up."

Odom looked to his base commander, then back to Luke, clearly uncertain.

"Stand up," Luke repeated. "Get out of the bed."

Byrne stepped in for his officer as Odom climbed shakily from the bed, still pale. "Sir, I remind you that this is an injured crew member who was shot and knocked unconscious during the raid less than an hour ago. I have to ask what the hell…"

Luke didn't even take his eyes off Odom. "Lieutenant Commander Meck Odom, you stand accused of conspiring to aid enemies of the State. Do you understand the charge brought against you?"

Even Han blinked, shocked at the speed at which events had turned. Odom glanced again to his senior officer, aghast, and Byrne stepped in, practically shouting.

"What? This is a time-served officer whom I know personally! You can't just come in here and…"

The kid didn't acknowledge him, instead continuing with the official arraign, simply raising his voice to be heard over Byrne's objections. "You will be taken immediately into detention until such a time as that charge is answered to the satisfaction of the State. Conspiracy is a class one charge and entitles you to no defense or council. Do you understand the charge?"

Odom looked to his senior. "Sir?"

Byrne was quick to answer, eyes still on Luke. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You want to know how your Rebel got in? Let me tell you." Luke indicated Odom with a jerk of his head. "He shut down the perimeter defenses and opened the South gate."

"What!" Byrne glanced to Odom, who was wide-eyed. "I've known this man for years—he has an exemplary record!"

"He also let a Rebel into your facility. Knowingly." Luke turned on Odom. "Did you provide him with information on where to go? A floor plan?"

The man stared, still shocked to silence, hand rising to the medical gown about his neck as if it were tightening every moment.

Luke looked to Han. "Go and get some binders, we're taking him with us."

Byrne stepped closer. "You can't just take one of my officers!"

Han lifted his hands. "Maybe we should all just calm down and…"

"Go and get some binders!"

The kid was getting that manic look in his eye as his tone hardened, so Han backed out of the room, eager to get the damn binders and get back, 'cos Force knew what Luke'd do if Byrne started trying to throw his weight around when Han wasn't there.

By the time he got back the argument had moved out into the corridor, with Luke hold of one of the bewildered officer Odom's arms as Byrne held the other, holding Odom back against Luke's onward pull as Byrne continued his harangue.

"You have no right to come in here and…"

Luke turned, free hand raised to point threateningly. "Back off, soldier; last warning."

"Who the hell do you think you a—"

Luke's hand opened wide as he thrust it forward, and without contact Byrne was propelled back across the corridor to hit the far wall with a heavy thud, staggering to remain upright. Han stepped quickly in, hands out before him as he looked to the kid.

"Woah, woah! Let's all calm down here—it's just a misunderstanding…"

Byrne pushed off from the wall and Han twisted round to stop him as Luke pushed Odom on, still hold of his arm. Han grappled to hold Byrne back, aware that if the kid let loose then Byrne wouldn't see another day.

"Do you want to go down for aiding and abetting?" Luke yelled. "This man is a traitor. You want to know who was responsible for the deaths you're so outraged at? You're trying to protect him right now!"

"You have no right to…"

"I have jurisdiction everywhere!"

"This is a Security Bureau site—Ubiqtorate don't…"

"We have equal authority to the ISB, you know that."

"That doesn't give you the right to ride rough-shod over this base. We have protocols—you can't just take a man with no evidence!"

A few other officers were beginning to join the stormtroopers who had appeared at the end of the corridor, drawn by the raised voices, and Han was becoming painfully aware that they were on their own here. He'd pulled out his comlink already, but was forced to keep breaking off from trying to summon their shuttle to land on the flat ground outside the medicenter, in order to try to keep Byrne and the kid from each other's throats.

"Evidence?" Luke yelled. "How did he know, Byrne? Your _reliable officer_ was shot and didn't see who did it—didn't see anything, he claimed. He'd been out cold throughout the raid, and been alone in the medicenter ever since, yet he knew that it was _one man_ who'd infiltrated the base. How did he know that?"

"That's not enough to arrest him!"

"It's enough to make me look closely, and I'm telling you he did it. _That's_ enough!"

The group had moved down the corridor, Byrne not backing off as Luke dragged the ever more nervous Odom with him. He'd taken the binders off Han and paused to fasten them round Odom's wrists, though the man struggled to pull his second hand free.

"Give me your hand," Luke yelled into his face. "Give me your damn hand, or I'll break both your wrists, knock you out and drag you to the transport!"

The other base officers were starting to murmur, and the group seemed larger now as they stared and straightened and braced to form a subconscious block to the end of the corridor that Han knew they needed to pass through, to get out of the external doors just beyond. Having summoned the shuttle, he was now on the line to the _Immortal_, trying hard to make this an unarguable situation for Byrne and his men, 'cos he knew damn well that the kid wouldn't back down.

"You have no jurisdiction on an ISB base," Byrne yelled again.

"Unless you have a higher-ranked ISB officer here, I do. Do you _have_ an ISB officer on the base?" Luke challenged. "Because I'd very much like to meet him, to ask him what the hell he's been doing the last few hours, and why he was falsifying information coming in to my datapad."

They'd reached the gang of officers and troopers at the end of the corridor now and Han turned first, to a sea of stony faces which stopped him cold. The group had grown to maybe twenty-five, officers and troopers both, standing four or five deep. He was acutely aware that neither himself nor the kid wore sidearms.

Backing into Han, Luke turned from Byrne to the group, one hand still holding the now bound Odom by a handful of the medical gown at the small of his back.

"Stand down." Sixteen years old and head and shoulders shorter than anyone else there, he still had a tone of absolute command in his voice, lips pulled back in a near-growl as he rumbled the command a second time. "Stand down. Back off."

He shouldered past Han and started forward, shoving Odom before him…and the soldiers fell back just slightly, thrown by the fact that Odom was pushed into them. Han followed Luke through the barely shoulder-width gap that opened, stares of undisguised hostility from armed and agitated soldiers burning into him as they jostled his shoulders in silence. Narrowed eyes glared as they whispered, arms crossed, fists clenched, and Han silently prayed every step of the way, muscles wired ready to fight, just waiting for the spark that'd ignite this into violence.

From the corner of his vision over the crowd, he saw clouds of dust kick up as their shuttle dropped smoothly into the parade square outside, the pilot probably wondering why the hell Han had told him to land there rather than at the nearby pad.

Then they were in the corridor beyond, its doors opening smoothly onto the dusty square…and all the time the crowd stayed with them, keeping pace just a step behind Han as he backed towards the shuttle.

As the ramp dropped Luke took the time to turn about to the crowd, who'd slowed a few paces back. Han stepped onto the ramp, taking Odom's arm, but the kid kept hold, looking through the tense mob until his eyes rested on Commander Byrne. Smiling, he brought his hand to his forehead to flick a mocking salute. "Been a pleasure, Commander," he said simply—then turned, and pushed Odom up the ramp and into the shuttle.

Byrne shouted something in reply, but it was drowned out by the flare of the shuttle's engines as the ramp closed, and the gathered soldiers were forced to step back from its dust-laden backwash.

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Han collapsed back into his seat in silence as the shuttle accelerated skywards, watching Odom stagger slightly as the floor angled beneath their feet. Luke pushed Odom forwards into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the shuttle without a word, then wandered over to sit opposite Han.

"Well, you sure know how to crash a party," Han managed at last as his pounding heart rate slowed.

"Because I'm the one at fault here."

"You know, there is such a thing as tact. They'd just had their base shot from under them—they're gonna be a little jumpy."

"I'm a soldier, not a diplomat."

"Copishit. I've seen you tiptoe through way less volatile situations than that, with all that 'young and innocent' stuff."

"It wasn't necessary this time."

"I beg to differ!" Han exclaimed, pointing planetwards, feeling that events were on his side on this one. "Do you actually _like_ causing a situation!"

"Please, that wasn't a situation. It was barely a spat." The kid stood to pat his jacket down, and Han knew exactly what he was looking for.

"I don't believe you, I really don't."

Luke stared, mildly belligerent. "You want me to calm down or not?"

Han glared, furious…and the kid started to laugh, any anger instantly gone as he dropped back onto his seat. "I don't have any anyway. You're bright red, you know that?"

"That's 'cos my heart's three beats short of a coronary," Han grumbled as he settled back, glancing once to the wide-eyed Odom. "He'd better be worth it."

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The kid walked from the cell without looking back, and Han stood, feeling his chest tighten. He hadn't gone in this time; couldn't, not again. "Well?"

"He didn't deny anything," Luke said quietly. "He knew Katarn from their academy days, said he trusted him. Trusted his judgment. He provided everything Katarn asked for: layouts, codes…even took down perimeter security so Katarn could get in."

"Does he know what Katarn wanted?"

"I do. There was a partial set of plans relating to the Death Star stored in the ISB vaults in Trid Garrison. Odom doesn't know how the Rebels knew."

"Does he know where they were taking them?"

"No. He doesn't know anything because he had no greater involvement. He made a mistake, an error of judgment. Simple as that."

"What'll happen to him?"

The kid glanced away. "He admitted to treason."

Which held a statutory sentence, Han knew: death. "C'mon, it wasn't treason, it was an error of judgment—you said it yourself."

"I also said he admitted to treason. My hands are tied."

"By whom?"

"By Palpatine—by the law! You break the law, you get punished, everyone knows that."

"Punished, not executed!"

"I have standing orders."

"C'mon, you know—you _know_ it's too much!"

"Palpatine expects…"

"He's not here," Han said. "He's not here and you are, and I know you can make that kind of judgment—you want to. The guy made a bad decision…a really bad decision," Han added, at the look on Luke's face. "But he knows it. He's co-operated. He's not a radical or a revolutionary—you can see that. He just made a bad call."

The kid glanced down, a trace of uncertainty in his voice. "I should do it…"

Han too lowered his voice, coaxing rather than forcing. "But you won't…because you know it's not right."

Luke stared, uncertainty setting fine lines in his youthful face. He brought his hands up to swipe at his eyes, more out of frustration than tiredness, though Han knew he must be feeling it by now. He held his breath, willing the kid to comprehend, to understand what he was doing in someone else's name…

Luke looked to the side, then back to the cell door. Tense moments ticked by as he stared, torn…

Just once more he looked at Han, expression somewhere between annoyance and accusation—then he turned and walked from the detention center without looking back.

Letting out a low sigh, Han took a few seconds to glance to the sealed cell door, knowing that the man within would never realize just how close he'd come…then set off after the kid.

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He reached him about the same time as Indo did, on his way down from the bridge. With Luke's turbolift already gone from the detention center's hub by the time Han arrived, he had no idea where the kid had gone, and had to resort to the ship's internal security system to track him down.

Which was why he reached stellar cartography just in time to have Indo, who'd come from the other direction sporting his signature withering glare, enter and close the door in his face. Figured.

Keying the release, Han walked into a glowing hologram of this part of the Outer Rim, planets of the three systems spinward from Danuta spread out across the big chamber as Luke moved through it, the display tracing in bright images over his face and clothes.

"Toprawa," Luke said without turning.

Han glanced up into the holo. "Huh?"

"That's where they'll go next—Toprawa."

"The Kalmith sector's too far out of their way," Indo said, squinting at the holo. "You said yourself they'll look for the Maw Installation—that means they'll stay in the Halla Sector."

"They have no leads on the location of the Maw Installation—but some of the information they just picked up from Danuta would have come from Toprawa, probably via the Cron Drift satellite they sliced into, which means they have the same Imperial base named from two different sources, in connection with the Death Star. The logical thing for them to do is try to backtrack from there…which would take them to Toprawa Garrison."

"You assume they can decode the information," Indo said.

"Location base codes passing through an Imperial Garrison wouldn't be subject to the same level of ciphers as the messages themselves," Luke said, eyes still on the holo. "They'd be a standard code glyph. If they can't break those, then we really don't need to worry about them—ever. And chances are they've got at least a partial decode."

"You're making assumptions again."

"No, I'm playing percentages."

Indo raised an eyebrow. "That's the same thing. Insufficient investigative study or…"

Luke turned. "The Cron Drift was clearly part of a pre-meditated, ongoing plan which started with the strike to gain an Imperial communications satellite. For that plan to succeed, they also needed an informer to smuggle the codes out from Sinto Barracks, and recruited Lieutenant Derrig. Given the time scale determined by the theft of the satellite, it would be wildly optimistic to assume that Derrig hadn't smuggled at the very least one set of codes out before we caught him, and that the Rebels haven't now gotten a good few code-breakers committed to extrapolating the rest." Luke paused, tipping his head. "Given _those_ facts, it's reasonable to assume that they've decoded a percentage of the information they hold. Toprawa Garrison was named on the files sent through Sinto Barracks at the time that Derrig was active, and would have been named on the files they've just gained from Danuta. Even assuming that they haven't accessed any of the Danuta information yet, Toprawa's name would still have gone through the Cron Drift satellite _and_ through Sinto in the time-scale we're working with. If we assume that they've decoded any two of those information sources, then Toprawa becomes the next most probable target. Logical enough?"

Indo remained silent for long seconds; not out of pique, but clearly running the explanation through his head, looking for flaws. He broke off as his comlink sounded, and as he turned away to answer it, Han took his opportunity, stepping closer to the kid.

"Listen, you…you did the right thing—in the detention center."

Luke glanced quickly to Indo, whose attention remained on the incoming comm, then turned back to study the holographic map. "No, you did…I would have killed him."

Which should have worried Han more, save for one thing; despite all that cool logic that Indo had drummed into him to the point that the kid could now throw it out on demand, and for all his willingness to cite orders…the kid had still known what was right and what was wrong.

Indo closed his comlink as he turned back, visibly nervous. "The Emperor commands an update."

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They were back in the Comm One to the side of the bridge, the bright glow of the transmission platform indicating that a comm was waiting. Indo stepped up to the console to enter the cipher as Luke walked forward. He hesitated just a second, gathering his thoughts, then he stepped onto the platform and dropped to one knee as the image coalesced.

That same image, filling the massive three-story chamber to loom over all present, every fold of wasted, waxen skin accentuated, lines of disapproval long-since etched through inclination and habit about reproving eyes, rendered on a massive scale which made the viewer flinch before a word was spoken.

"Report." The impatient command echoed around the dark chamber, and the kid stood immediately, tension edging his voice.

"We arrived in the Halla sector seven hours ago, Master, based on information collated from the Rebel listening post in the Cron Drift. We received a signal from the homing beacon almost immediately, and triangulated its position as orbiting Danuta. We also received an all-systems alert from the Imperial garrison there, which was under attack. By…by the time we reached Danuta the Rebels were gone, so…"

That massive visage crawled as thin lips split into a snarl. "The Rebels attacked the Danuta garrison?"

"Yes, Master."

"Did they know of the Security Bureau's vault?"

"Yes, Master. The aerial attack was to cover an incursion. The man who infiltrated the base was ex-Imperial military. Security images ID'd him as a mid-grade officer named Katarn, who went AWOL a few months ago. He didn't appear to have pre-existing knowledge of the layout of Trid garrison, but he knew one of the officers who worked there, and the man agreed to help him."

Lips drew back from darkly pitted teeth. "_My_ military? Those who gave an oath of allegiance to their Emperor! First the Sinto spy, then the pilot, and now here—they have less loyalty than rats. I'm plagued by treachery and sedition! Petty little miscreants who scutter about serving their own narrow logic, vermin who scurry to their own extermination with no idea of their insignificance."

Han stepped back before the diatribe, hissed with such venom that a fine accretion of spittle had whitened the corner of those bloodless lips. The kid, wisely, remained silent, head down, until the Emperor's anger had abated and those ochre eyes had lowered again.

"Were they successful?"

"The vault is under the jurisdiction of the ISB, so I'll need clearance to download specific system logs and access their mainframe, but…but the Rebels left of their own volition before our arrival, so I would assume they had all that they came for…" Again the kid paused, knowing he was delivering bad news. "Which would mean that they now have a partial copy of the Death Star's blueprints."

The silence, in many ways, was more sinister than any outburst. Even at this distance it burned in Han's chest, making him stare at the floor, apprehension eating inwards. Even the kid, who had grown up with the formidable old man, eventually felt the need to fill the silence.

"They were already gone when we arrived… We thou—"

"And you didn't think to follow them?" That harsh voice reverberated about the empty chamber, clipped with contained fury.

"There was nothing to follow, Master. They entered hyperspace before w—"

"You followed them successfully from the Cron Drift to Danuta."

"We made a jump to the Halla system based on available data, and received an alert from Danuta when we arrived. The Rebels…"

"You had a homing beacon on the Rebel ship."

"The beacon only works in an airless atmosphere, when the fighter carrying it is in deep space. Any transmitter that was active whilst in their capital ship's hangar would have been detected by them almost immediately and…"

"Excuses…endless excuses. It's the one thing at which you excel."

Han stared, offended on the kid's behalf. All the things he'd achieved; placing the tracker without suspicion, ensuring that it would remain undetected for as long as possible…the leaps of logic that had gotten them from the Sinto garrison to the Cron Drift and then to Danuta. The Rebel sympathizers uncovered, the codes maintained intact, the doctored satellite discovered, the chain of infiltration broken…all that was dismissed because the kid had failed to stop the theft of one document that had taken place on the other side of a system that they wouldn't have been near in the first place, without the kid's involvement!

Luke glanced momentarily to the side, where Indo skulked against the wall. The Viscount nodded just slightly, and Luke lifted his head. "We…I have reason to think their next target will be Toprawa, in the Calamith sector."

The Emperor paused, judgment written in the lines of his face. "You come to this conclusion, how?"

"It's the next outpost that stores and forwards information regarding the Death Star. The Rebels have partial plans, but they need more. What they have confirms its existence, but gives them little of tactical value. With all other lines of information now closed down, if they were desperate enough to attack Danuta they may well turn on a larger base like Toprawa to further their knowledge. We're preparing to make the jump now."

Yellow eyes narrowed in thought beneath that deeply scowling brow as Palpatine considered, bringing his gaze back to the kid who stood straight-backed before him, clearly prepared to wait as long as was necessary. "Did he give you any information, this Danuta traitor?"

"Odom? No, Master. He knew little, other than that he was helping a friend."

"To enter my base! To steal my secrets!"

"Yes, Master."

It was a brief outburst, mollified by the kid, so that the Emperor calmed quickly, lips pursing to a thin line before they pulled back into that familiar curling snarl. "Worthless creatures, every one. May their hides rot…they're dead, of course."

It was part statement, part question…and standing behind the kid, Han watched his hands at the small of his back squeeze tighter. "…Two are dead, Master—the Rebels from the listening post. They had nothing more of value to—"

"Two?"

"The…the officer from Trid garrison is still in custody. I've…"

"You said he knew nothing." Palpatine voice had cooled by degrees, dropping to an icy threat.

"…No, Master, but—"

"But? _But_? Are my orders to you unclear? Twice in two weeks you have seen fit to ignore them! Or perhaps you feel you know better than I?"

The kid lifted his head. "No, Master!"

"Then what am I to think? You are either stupid or disloyal—which is it? I'm surrounded by incompetence! You—you of all people, know this: my will is law, my command is absolute. You do not interpret it, you obey it. _Unconditionally_."

"Yes, M—"

"You're useless, useless to me! Every time I give you some modicum of responsibility, of autonomy, you throw it in my face like an insult! You claim obedience and commitment, then you do this!"

The kid held silent beneath the tirade as the Emperor ranted, threats and accusations rained down on him unchallenged. He simply remained still, head tipped, hands clasped tightly behind his back…as Han began to realize just what he'd asked of the kid. And having asked him, he wouldn't leave him to face this alone.

He pushed off from the wall, intending to walk forward to the transmission platform and say that it was him who'd questioned the sentence…and a weight pressed instantly against his chest, pushing him smoothly but forcibly back against the wall and pinning him there. The kid risked a glance to the side, his eyes widened in warning, before he turned quickly back, hiding his head-turn by lifting it.

"It was just one man," he murmured quietly—and Palpatine exploded.

"My will is law…_ My will is law,_ do you understand! Answer!"

"…Yes, Master."

That massive visage rocked with breathlessness at shouting. Snarling lips settled to a curling sneer as the Emperor quietened, so that his next words were a low, grating growl. "We will speak further, on your return." There was no attempt to hide the open threat, and the kid's head dropped low, voice penitent.

"Yes, Master."

"In the meantime, Lord Vader is less than half a day's travel from Toprawa. He will assume command of this fiasco, since you are clearly incapable. You're to hand any and all information over to him and comply fully with his commands, do I make myself clear?"

That brought Luke's head up, making him drop the pressure which had pinned Han loosely to the wall. "Vader! I can—"

"Silence!" Palpatine's image pressed closer, filling the space completely and looming over the kid, who dropped his head quickly at the booming command which rattled Han's ribcage. "I have no confidence in you, boy!" The words were bellowed out with absolute knowledge of their power. "If you cannot follow the simplest of ongoing commands without constant supervision, then I will certainly provide it. You will do as you are told, _do you understand_?"

"Yes, Master, I understand."

The Emperor quietened to a brittle calm, yellow eyes narrowed, though they lost not an ounce of their seething threat. "And we _will_ speak further on your return."

The towering hologram dissipated, leaving the room to a brittle silence. Luke remained still for long seconds more, staring at the floor before him…then he turned about and walked quickly from the room, eyes dead ahead.

"Luke—Luke, wait…" Han set forward, but Indo's iron grip took his arm.

"I think you've done enough damage for one day, Lieutenant. It was you who persuaded Luke not to carry out the sentence on the prisoner, wasn't it? He wouldn't have done that alone."

Han snatched his arm free. "He shouldn't be expected to do it—any of it! He's a kid, he's just a kid!"

"No, Lieutenant Solo, nor has he been for a long time. Ask him, and he'll be the first to tell you that."

"Because you all keep on sayin' that to him! You keep on dangling it before him that if he grows up then all this'll stop! But you know as well as I do that that's just not gonna happen. Palpatine's not gonna let up—ever!"

"All the more reason to help Luke comply…or is that insufficiently obvious?"

"You want to know what's sufficiently obvious? It makes no difference what the kid does—it never will!"

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Three paces beyond the door of the comm room, Luke pressed to the wall, listening to the raised voices within, charged with emotion. He closed his eyes, sensing the turmoil that bubbled beneath the surface of Solo's anger, deflected with barely a scratch by the familiar cool of Indo's stony presence, always a calm oasis. There had been many times when Luke had clung to Indo for that very reason, through years of chaotic confusion. And Indo was right, this was his life. It had always been this way.

But now Solo was stepping in and saying that it was wrong somehow…putting questions and doubts into Luke's mind which would only bring down his Master's wrath, and he knew it. Why risk that—why endure it all over again, on the word of a stranger?

He slid slowly down the wall to sit on the polished floor as the argument continued in turns of heated outbursts and frosty replies. He shouldn't listen. Not because it was wrong, but because if Palpatine found out that he had—that he'd wanted to—then he'd remove Solo; take him to pieces. And yet he still didn't move. Couldn't walk away, fascinated in part that someone here had the gall to actually think they could stand up and ask the questions that had long since been beaten out of himself, and in part that…that he did so out of _concern_. For Luke.

In his own way—in a safe and reassuringly distant way—Indo had been the nearest that Luke had ever come to this strange, unsettling thing. But it had been always reserved and restrained, tempered by the Viscount's private ambition and the loyalties necessary to feed that, nothing promised or expected on either side.

This… Luke stared at his distorted, darkened reflection in the polished floor, as the argument raged. Should he feel something, right now? He'd lived his life in this maelstrom, with never a hand lifted in aid. And because of it, he owed nothing to anyone, save his Master, to whom he owed absolute allegiance. He knew that. It couldn't be any other way—it couldn't. He'd learned that long ago; had stood and fallen alone. _Alone…_

Solo couldn't change anything—not really. Only someone with a close connection to the Force could challenge Palpatine. Luke wasn't about to, and Vader never had. He thought briefly of his father, Kenobi, and the woman, Leia Skywalker. But since they hadn't done so already, he had to assume that they too stood in his Master's shadow, albeit from a safer distance.

In fact, why was Solo here at all? Because Luke had brought him, yes, but…nothing happened here without his Master's express sanction: nothing. Luke scowled, thinking on that; Solo was argumentative, disrespectful, and wilfully headstrong—that was what so fascinated Luke about him. He dared to speak out even inside the walls of the Imperial palace itself…yet he was still here. Indo's cool reply to another yelled assertion tilted Luke's head slightly—surely Indo himself would have spoken to the Emperor more than once by now…yet Han was still here.

Luke brought his hand up, chewing compulsively at his thumbnail, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. The fact was that if Solo was here, then it was by his Master's consent…and why would that be? Why allow a wayward influence inside… He straightened, breath leaving him; _wayward influence_… Was that what this was? A test of Luke's resolve, of his ability to maintain self-discipline—one which he was failing, dismally.

He leaned back to bang his own head against the wall behind him, chiding himself for not seeing it sooner, knowing more than ever that he shouldn't sit here and listen. Not because it was wrong, but because Palpatine would know damn well that he had—would want him to. Want to see if Luke was fool enough to listen to Solo…and would knock him mercilessly back down if he suspected that he had. Even Solo had no comeback to that, save to rail against Indo, when the shouting was done.

So nothing changed; not really. He rose and walked down the corridor alone, leaving the argument behind. After ten steps he threw back his head and let out a laugh, forced and empty, fired only by his own amusement that he'd thought, for even a moment, that it could.

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Leia Skywalker sat cross-legged in the center of the Rebel corvette's exercise bay, eyes closed in concentration. Before her, clearly delineated in the coruscating lines of power which moved within the Force, she could see the six large packing boxes she had lifted, as well as the ever-complaining Artoo. And walking towards them, his quiet amusement radiating outwards in mellifluous waves, was Obi-Wan. His presence shone within the Force, incredibly powerful yet infinitely gentle, so familiar that she couldn't imagine what her life would have been without him. He'd given her everything, though he'd never claim such a thing.

He'd also, after much thought, told her the truth about her heritage when she'd begun her training, aged fourteen—though Leia suspected that Mon Mothma had had more than a passing influence on the decision. She remembered it being a terrible, tearing blow despite softly spoken words, its impact magnified by the knowledge that everyone around her was fighting to stop this man and everything he stood for. She remembered the guilt, the fear, the confusion and denials, the endless questions which Obi-Wan had answered hesitantly, reluctantly sometimes. She knew even then, as she knew now, that not all had been told. But Obi-Wan and Mon had taken care to underline that Leia herself had done nothing wrong, ever, and that it was the choices she made, every day, which meant that all she had in common with her father was a name, and that unknown to almost everybody save herself—as it must remain. Taken great care that Leia didn't allow her knowledge that she was Darth Vader's only child to isolate her, or disconnect her from those around herself.

She'd come herself to a realization of the necessity to stop both Vader and his Emperor. A brief flirtation with meeting the father she'd never known had been quietly tolerated by Obi-Wan, but in the end, seeing for too many years the dire consequence of Darth Vader's actions, Leia had slowly separated herself from her heritage, in her own mind. All she had kept was the name that Vader himself had forsaken; the name which linked her only with a Jedi known before the purges—and that only to the very, very few. Obi-Wan had been reluctant, but again the tempered views of Mon Mothma had come to her aid; they could and would keep Leia's existence concealed as long as possible—her very survival depended on it—but the name she'd been born with was part of her identity, and to take it from her was to disparage her faith in herself. If she did one day face her father, it should be with her own name held high, not whispered as an embarrassment. She knew who she was; she had nothing to prove, and Vader, said Mon, had no hold on her. Would he make the connection when he heard it, long-believing that his daughter was dead? Possibly; probably. But the advantage would be hers, not his; she knew who she was—her past could never be used against her, least of all by her father; Mon had said this so often, and so often, as Leia had grown, she'd wondered at the hesitation in Mon's voice as she spoke.

And so she'd stepped free of her inhibitions at a past not of her making, and been stronger, for knowing. For acknowledging. And having stepped free, she'd looked even more strongly to surround herself with a family of her own making, comprising of those she respected and cared for, those whose beliefs and tenets she shared. And foremost among those were Mon Mothma and, of course, Obi-Wan; her Master, her mentor and her friend.

Together they had gifted her the confidence always, to look within and trust herself. To look out into the greater galaxy and see the truth…and to be unafraid to fight for all that she believed in. Faith that she wouldn't falter or lose her convictions; that all that was wrong could be changed, and it was her responsibility to try to change it—hers and those around her. Gifted her, always, with the innate knowledge that she _could_.

She hadn't had a normal childhood since she'd come here, aged eleven, she knew that. Towed from one tramp freighter or corvette to another, always half a step ahead of the Empire, sometimes fighting, sometimes running…yet she'd always felt _safe_, somehow. Always been aware of the unspoken indulgence and protection of the fighters and the techs and the pilots who'd sat with her and showed her how to field-strip a Blas Tech E-11 or a DT-57, or how to hotwire practically any SoroSuub fighter on the market inside of two minutes. She'd run down battered corridors with hand-fashioned toys, and played on the landing strips of crowded fighter bays. She'd learned that a lag-pursuit with an angle-off at high velocity was absolutely the best way fro any pilot to get in behind an enemy craft without sacrificing all-important speed, and if you got caught yourself, you fell back on a spiral dive and prayed you had the inside turn. She'd been out on quieter missions with Obi-Wan since she had begun her Jedi training at fourteen—been given brief spells in command of tramp freighters carrying illegal munitions, at fifteen. Flown fighters in combat without blinking an eye. She didn't know much about the latest boy-band or what color she should be painting her toenails this year, but because of Obi-Wan and Mon, and countless other friends, close and here, and long gone and sorely missed, she could shoot practically any gun, cross practically any border, hardwire practically any security lock, fly practically any fighter going… And she believed, absolutely, that it was possible to change _anything_.

Obi-Wan smiled as Leia gently lowered the objects she'd chosen at random in the cluttered bay, glancing once to Artoo as he continued his long and typically forthright scolding. He waited patiently as Artoo finished his extended harangue then wheeled about on the spot to scoot back to what he felt to be a safer distance before finishing with a brief, rasping flourish. Turning back, Obi-Wan raised greying eyebrows at Leia, the dry, perpetual bemusement that was so much a part of him audible in his voice. "I would think he'd be used to it by now."

Artoo had been around as long as Leia could remember, and she'd pretty much taken over his ownership when she'd started training as a pilot, occasionally lending him to Biggs Darklighter in the last few months when the Tatoonian pilot, about her own age, had joined up because…well, he was from Tatooine, and that damn near made him family. She could get a newer droid, she supposed, but Artoo was family, too.

And to Leia, aware on some level that, despite everyone around her she would always be alone…family was everything.

She stood, dusting off the pants and crossover tunic she wore, a shorter, more serviceable version of Obi-Wan's Jedi robes. "I couldn't sleep," she explained wryly, knowing that he'd understand. "How're we doing?"

"We've managed a partial decipher of the information from Danuta. The _Liberty_ will continue working on it when we transfer the information."

Leia glanced down, frustrated. The decrypt codes that they should have gained from Sinto Barracks on Coruscant would have been invaluable in decoding the Death Star files, but despite her having gone there herself to try to re-establish contact with their agent, they'd been unsuccessful. Perhaps if she'd had longer… But she'd been pulled away as operation Skyhook had gained ever more momentum, and they'd been forced to push on without it.

She would have felt a whole lot better too, if they'd managed to transfer the information they'd gained from Danuta straight from the _Tantive_ where she and Obi-Wan were presently assigned, to the _Liberty_, whilst they were still over Danuta. But the unexpected appearance of the Star Destroyer _Immortal_ at the edge of the system had stopped the transfer, as both Rebel ships had jumped to avoid being spotted. So now, with a deadline ticking down and no way to contact the _Liberty_ whilst both it and the _Tantive_ were in hyperspace, they would be forced to make the transfer during the coming battle.

"How's Biggs doing?" Last she'd heard, he'd been stuck right in the middle of the whole Cron Drift fiasco.

"They pulled him out…only just, it seems," Obi-Wan assured. "He's onboard the _Liberty_, along with the information from the listening post." He tipped his head in tolerant disapproval of the pilot's enthusiasm, linking his hands behind his back beneath the long, roughspun cloak he'd always worn. "He says he'll see you spaceside."

"Will he be there?"

"And Klivian…and Wedge. Red, Blue and Gold Groups are launching from the _Liberty_ to attack the convoy whilst our ground troops meet up with the local Alliance militia cell to concentrate on the base. Though I understand that Biggs and Wedge have been assigned to make sure that the shuttle transporting the data makes it safely over to the _Liberty_."

Leia nodded. They'd fought long and hard to pry information about the Death Star from Imperial sources over the last few months, and every step of the way the stakes seemed to rise. "Will we stay aboard the _Tantive_?"

Obi-Wan shrugged, unflustered by the fluidity of the situation—but then it was always this way, Leia knew, when facing a larger enemy. "We'll go where we're needed, which may be here or with the fighter squadrons. The orbital battle will have the worse odds, and we need to be sure that all the information's delivered safely to the _Liberty_—both from the _Tantive_ and from our ground attack on the Imperial base."

Leia nodded. "Do we have an ETA?"

"Five hours," Obi-Wan said gravely. "We reach Toprawa in five hours."

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To be continued...

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	14. Chapter 14

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**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

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Vader stood on the darkened bridge of the _Devastator_, hands behind his back as he watched the battle unfold before him, feeling the familiar twist of satisfaction at the pit of his stomach which had never quite left in moments such as this, with the realization that all that happened was at _his_ command.

It also gave him a private satisfaction that the _Devastator_ had arrived at Toprawa before the _Immortal_, even knowing that this had put his own Destroyer in the front line of the battle. He knew how much Luke Antilles would have resented handing information and control of this mission over to Vader in the first place, at the Emperor's command—and therefore how much he would have pushed the _Immortal_ to try to get here before Vader.

Why exactly that would have been important, the boy had…omitted to mention. But being given what details he had, Vader had immediately done a little investigation of his own…and so he knew that a convoy gathering all the separate elements of the Death Star plans was due to stop in orbit around Toprawa to collect the schematics of the superlaser's control systems from the Imperial Research Station on the planet's surface. A perfect opportunity for subversives like the Rebels to gain twice the intel for a single strike.

And therefore the perfect bait to draw them out of hiding…if Vader could get there in time. Until his new flagship was completed, he remained aboard the _Devastator_ which, as a Class-I Star Destroyer, had slower lightspeed capabilities than the newer _Immortal_, but the _Devastator_ had been closer, so it had been a difficult race to call—but an important one, in terms of command. It would have been…galling to have arrived in the middle of a pitch battle and been forced to ask the _Immortal_ for an update and then, worse, probably have to appear to follow a course of action that the boy had already set in place, because whatever else he was, Kenobi's bastard son had a head for tactics and would read the situation quickly. Chances were that the boy's assessment and reactions would be very similar to Vader's own—they had been in the past. And having judged the situation and ensured that the necessary counterattack was underway, he knew exactly what the boy would be thinking to do next; he would seek to put his own Destroyer in the thick of the action, in a tactic that would relegate the _Devastator—_and so Vader—as far from it as possible. He knew that, because he had every intention of doing the same with the boy.

At the point that the _Devastator_ had arrived, the Imperial convoy had been in tatters, its remaining ships spread over a wide area in mid to low orbits, with many already destroyed or forced down to the surface causing collateral damage, despite Toprawa firing its ground-based emplacements in support. But then, they'd had nothing to counter the firepower of the lead Rebel ship…because it was the _Liberty_—the flagship of the Rebel fleet.

And having finally come face to face with it, Vader wasn't about to let it leave.

The _Vendetta—_the only other Star Destroyer within striking distance_—_ had arrived within minutes of the _Devastator_, and Vader had wasted no time in concentrating the majority of the two capital ships' firepower on the Mon Cal vessel, ordering both ships to scissor closely before the massive flagship in order to prevent it from accelerating to escape velocity. Now it was struggling to back off, turning on its own axis in an attempt to stop the two Star Destroyers from concentrating their fire too heavily on any one spot. The massive Mon Cal cruisers were impressive behemoths, and this one's military readiness had clearly been fortified with an impressive arsenal and upgraded shields, but they were ponderously slow at sublight speeds, not designed for outright battle, and the _Liberty_ was taking a beating…

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It had changed so quickly, to Leia—but then battles did. Everything about the operation had gone perfectly in the early stages. They'd arrived at Toprawa exactly on schedule to catch the Imperial convoy, coming out of hyperspace almost on top of them and enabling the _Liberty _to launch its fighter wings before the Imperials had even begun to react, Red Hand's ground troop transports breaking the atmosphere unchallenged on their mission to hit the barracks on Toprawa itself.

The Imperial convoy had nothing to counter the scale and firepower of the _Liberty_ and had crumbled and scattered, relying on less accurate planetary surface guns from Toprawa for its defense as Rebel fighters systematically mopped up any and all resistance. Meanwhile the _Tantive_ _IV_, under Raymus Antilles' seasoned captainship, had nestled alongside its target in the pandemonium and launched shock-troops under cover of a four scoutship element headed up by the Wookiee, Chewbacca, to penetrate the Imperial carrier and gain its intended information with ease, evacing its team onto the shuttle _Maria_.

With the arrival of Biggs and Wedge to escort the shuttle _Maria_—carrying the new information gained from the Imperial ship it had just left, as well as everything delivered to the _Tantive_ from the Danuta raid—over to the _Liberty_, Leia and Obi-Wan had returned to the _Tantive's_ bridge to check on the battle taking place at the Imperial barracks on Toprawa itself. The final packet of information regarding the Death Star's superlaser was held in the Toprawa barracks; gaining it would give the Alliance a complete set of Death Star schematics, and so the hope of countering the new super-weapon. Everything had run like clockwork, and despite Obi-Wan's reminder that no battle plan ever survived first contact, Leia remembered distinctly thinking that they almost couldn't fail—not now.

Then the Star Destroyers had arrived. The _Devastator_ first, joined almost immediately by the _Vendetta_…

And all hells had broken loose.

The _Liberty_ had come under almost instant attack from both the _Devastator_ and the _Vendetta_, who had moved to flanking positions, their tails sufficiently inward to hinder the _Liberty's_ forward escape. Forced to try backing on maneuvering thrusters only as she rolled, her hull shields were beginning to glow beneath the sustained barrage. The flagship of the Rebel fleet—with Mon herself onboard.

The _Tantive_ was moving to their aid, of course, but it was a tricked up blockade runner, not a front-line fighter. As the two Destroyers had begun to spew fighter squadrons from their bays even that had become harder, the space between the _Tantive_ and the _Liberty_ ablaze with dogfights…

Then the _Immortal, _which had dogged Operation Skyhook almost from its inception, came out of hyperspace in high orbit behind the _Liberty_, and Leia could only watch from the _Tantive's_ bridge, feeling her senses pull tighter in reaction to the new threat.

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Onboard the bridge of the _Immortal,_ Luke stood close to the main viewports, his eyes locked on the massive Mon Cal cruiser _Liberty_ as Captain Roth made comm contact.

"_Devastator_, this is Captain Roth onboard the SD _Immortal_, requesting orders."

"_Immortal_, this is the _Devastator_. Stand by on comm code three-three-nine."

They held for long seconds in which the _Immortal_ slowed, leaving Luke to straighten and cross his arms in frustration. They didn't need to wait—the _Liberty_ was right there! He glanced once to Solo, whose eyes remained on the fight. The Corellian's frustration at being a fighter pilot stuck on a capital ship's bridge in the middle of an all-out dogfight was palpable, igniting Luke's own adrenaline as he glanced back out to the battle. To his left Indo stood calmly, little of his disposition escaping out into the Force, as ever. Between them, Luke felt like he was standing in the open, with one side of his body up against the heat of a fire, whilst the other side froze in cool night air.

The comm crackled to life, then gave a momentary hitch as its systems decoded the encrypted frequency. The bass timber of the voice was enough to let Luke know that Vader had already taken command. "_Immortal_, you are instructed to launch all fighters, then take up a flanking position for a starboard sweep of the battle perimeter. Any and all Rebel vessels attempting to leave the fray are to be destroyed."

Always ready to follow orders, Roth was quick to reply. "Confirmed, _Devastator_. Fighters are launching, and the _Immortal_ will begin a slow pass to the outer edge of the arena."

"What!" Luke hadn't meant it to come out that loud, but this was ridiculous. "You want us to pick off stragglers and runners?"

His words had, apparently, been loud enough for the pick-ups to transmit, and Vader was quick to reply—and dismiss. "The _Liberty_ is not the only ship in this battle, Lieutenant Commander Antilles."

"Luke." Standing beside him, Indo tilted his head in quiet warning without looking, but Luke knew exactly what Vader was doing.

"He's putting us out of the fight!"

"Your opinion is not invited, Lieutenant Commander Antilles," Vader growled. "Particularly since it appears to have done little to aid this campaign so far."

"Little to…I _got_ you here! I got you a chance at the _Liberty_."

"And now you are wasting valuable time and airspace when I should be dealing with her. If you are unable to restrain yourself, then I shall order you removed from the _Immortal's_ bridge. Captain Roth?" Vader barked. "You have your orders."

Luke turned about to stare at Solo, who lifted his eyebrows in an unmistakable, 'Shut the hell up' expression. Clamping his jaw, Luke took two steps backwards, boiling. He was saved from making another outburst by an incoming message.

"Sir," The Ops officer looked in Luke's direction, still unsure what exactly was going on here, but not wanting to be caught out either way. "I have an incoming signal—your homing beacon's transmitting to port."

Luke paced quickly to the tech station at the side of the command walkway. "Put it on screen."

And there it was, less than three hundred clicks from their present position. Luke glanced out across the bridge's viewports into the thick of the action as the _Immortal_ began to slide forwards, moving level with and then past the _Liberty's_ struggle. Grinding his jaw, he looked out into the larger battle, watching the exhaust flares of TIE wings as they launched from the _Immortal_ in finger-four formations. He could probably make the tagged X-wing out from here...they'd be passing it about now. Solo stepped in beside him, squinting at the tech screen which mapped its location. "That our X-wing?"

"Yep," Luke said, resigned.

"We could go out and take a pot-shot at him, I suppose—we're not about to do anything else, apparently."

"We should go out there and protect him," Luke murmured dryly. "He's my lead back to the _Liberty_ if this goes wrong."

Solo's voice dropped. "You think it'll go bad?"

"We can only hope."

Letting out a laugh beneath his breath, Solo squinted at the board and keyed for a closer image. "Is he with a shuttle?"

Luke glanced to the image. "Not our problem, evidently—and I wouldn't want to waste valuable time and airspace checking it out."

"Seriously? You're gonna let Vader get away with that?"

Luke stared for long seconds, weighing up the odds in getting involved in a fight in which, if it went well Vader would take the credit for, and if it went badly and Luke had been even slightly involved, Vader would certainly be looking to lay blame…

.

.

.

On the _Tantive's_ bridge, Leia stood tensely before the comm console, watching a holo of Mon Mothma as it fritzed with interference. "… taking substantial damage, and we've lost contact with the shuttle _Maria_. We're transmitting her last co-ordinates, but we fear she was forced down to the surface when the _Immortal_ launched its fighter squadrons."

Obi-Wan stepped forward, a pillar of calm in the chaos of pitch battle. "Chief Mothma, we're on our way. We can be there in…"

"No, Master Kenobi, hold the _Tantive_ back. We're unable to complete our mission in receiving the plans from the Toprawa barracks. You're hereby ordered to make that your priority. The frequency is 1215 on Reshi, your contact is Vermillion, and your codeword is Skyhook."

Leia leaned forward, unable to keep the worry from her voice. "But the _Liberty_…"

"Do your duty, Leia," Mon said, the barest of smiles touching her worried features. "Get the plans."

Leia nodded, finding her own strength in the tacit faith of Mon's voice. "Yes, Ma'am. We won't fail you."

Raymus was already turning. "Helm, take us towards the planet. Set a course below the battle to bring us in to a low orbit over the Research Center, ready to receive transmissions. Comms, get me someone on the surface."

"That's Red Hand Squadron, Sir."

"Get me a line to them—and start scanning on 1215 Reshi—find Vermillion."

Obi-Wan was staring out into the battle, watching it unfold with seasoned eyes. "We can free up at least three Wings to go to the _Liberty's_ aid. Y-wings and the Wookiee heavy scoutships can make attack runs to the _Vendetta's _port side, where they'll be protected from the _Devastator_. If they can do enough damage, they may force the _Vendetta_ to break off."

"Tactical, do it," Raymus said without hesitation. "And get me the damn Red Hand Squadron!"

.

.

.

On the bridge of the _Immortal,_ Luke stood at the tech station, its screens tuned to reflect the _Immortal's_ aft view, where he watched the distant barrage as the _Liberty_ fought for her life. The Rebels had risked pulling multiple fighter wings from the central skirmish to concentrate their fire on the _Vendetta_, who was beginning to list, opening up a narrow corridor for the _Liberty_ to aim for. Tilting his head, Luke felt the barest smile tug at the corners of his lips; she might just make it.

Beside him, Solo too was caught between dismay and guilty pleasure as he watched the battle for the _Liberty_ falter. "They're gonna lose her."

The _Immortal_ had just completed its first slow sweep of the battle and was bringing her bulk about on a tight axis, making the scene before her seem to roll as she angled her tail for the tightest turn. Luke stepped forward to the main viewports, finally able to see the _Liberty_ again as the battle came slowly into view.

Still rolling defensively on her own axis as she accelerated, the _Liberty_ was disgorging plumes of explosive fire and venting gas and debris where her shields had failed entirely and she was taking direct hits to her port side from the _Devastator_. But she was a Mon Cal capital ship and she could take a pounding, still accelerating into open space…then with a flash of displacement, she was gone. Standing alone at the front of the bridge, Luke's hidden smile turned into a wide grin…then he became aware of Indo to his right. He glanced over and into a stern cautionary glare, and looked down, chagrined… but he couldn't help but feel a buzz that Vader hadn't caught her. She was his ship. No matter who his Master gave the mission to, it was Luke who'd started the chase; his strategy that had gotten them even this close. The _Liberty_ was his hunt now, and he'd bring her down himself, in his own good time.

The silent half-smile that he was trying to hide from Indo melted as another thought occurred, and Luke set quickly across the walkways to Solo, who had remained at the tech station. "The X-wing signal, is it still transmitting?"

"….No, we lost it."

"Well, at least something's gone right."

"Wait, it's back."

"Back?"

"Yeah, we have a strong signal, just coming up to starboard. It must've been in Toprawa's atmosphere. Problem?"

"Yes, it's still out there," Luke said of the X-wing. "That means it didn't leave with the _Liberty_. If it gets shot up in the battle, that's my lead to her gone."

This was turning out to be a great day.

About him the view from the bridge swung about as the _Immortal_ straightened early from its tight roll, and Luke turned from the tech station as Roth handed out orders, chiding himself for not paying attention. "Captain?"

"Toprawa's surface Research Center is reporting incursions. We've been authorized by Lord Vader to provide support."

"The research center! They're trying to get the information from the research center—they're still going through with the raid."

To his credit, Roth acted instantly. "Contact the station's Duty Officer—tell him we're on our way and ask him if their vaults have been compromised."

All officers on the _Immortal's_ walkway had now turned to the crew pits, where everyone had stopped, leaning back from their consoles to stare, eyes on the Comm Chief as he relayed messages. "Sir, I have confirmation from the station's Duty Officer—the vaults are intact."

Everyone relaxed just slightly—except Luke. His day just wasn't going well enough for that. "Ask him where the Code nine-three-nine research plans are stored…are they kept in the vault?"

"Sir, the plans were stored in a high-security node in the habitation unit, on the Research Commander's order… They've lost contact with that section."

Beside Luke, Solo rolled his head. "They've got 'em."

"Well, they're not taking them anywhere." Luke looked to Roth. "Are we low enough for an aerial bombardment?" Roth remained still, but Luke straightened. "If you knock out their transport they can't get off the surface."

"We don't have that kind of accuracy," Roth said. "Not at this range."

"I'm not asking you to do a surgical strike, I'm asking you to disable any visible starships within a mile or so of the barracks—the airfields there for a start." From the corner of his eye, Luke saw Solo react—and knew why. He straightened, pointing back to the orbital battle. "I realize there'll be collateral damage but despite Vader's focus, the point of this mission was not to bring the _Liberty_ down—it was to stop that information falling into Rebel hands. And we're about to fail."

Roth pursed his lips for a moment, then looked to the comm officer. "Contact Lord Vader—explain, and ask permission to target any viable landing strips."

"Contact the Duty Officer at Toprawa and ask him to do the same," Luke said, eyes on the comm officer. "And to disable any useable craft on any part of the base, including speeders."

.

.

.

On the bridge of the _Tantive_, Leia and Raymus Antilles stood close to the comm station as the _Tantive_ changed course, turning away from the _Immortal_, who was slowing at the far edge of the battle to take up aerial bombardment of the planet below, her first ranging shots clearly aimed around the Research Center and the ground battle on Toprawa. Leia's brief pleasure at the _Liberty's_ escape had been tempered by the knowledge that now, the _Tantive_ was the next logical Imperial target…and until they had that information, they were going to have to tough this out. She watched the dizzying complexities of multiple dogfights, torn between the pull to be out there among the pilots to aid the _Tantive's_ push through the scrimmage, and the need to see their greater mission through as those about her on the bridge fought to make sense of the jammed and fragmented communications from the surface.

"Comms," Raymus said tightly, "any luck with our surface troops?"

"Negative, Sir," the Bimm comms officer said, shaking his head. "We're just not close enough to cut through the interference."

Raymus sighed, eyeing the massive bulk of the _Devastator_ which, with the loss of its primary target the _Liberty_, had turned to cut a swathe through the thick of the battle. "Helm, take us down to low orbit—get us within range of transmissions."

"Sir, on the _Devastator's_ new heading, that'll put us under her guns."

Raymus pursed his lips as he looked at Obi-Wan, who nodded just slightly. The captain straightened. "Well then, we'll brazen it out. We're picking up that damn transmission."

Aware that every moment they remained now put them a second closer to the _Devastator's_ superior firepower, Leia struggled to make anything of the garbled interference from the ground assault as the local Alliance militia moved to join up with Red Hand Squadron, the Rebel task force sent down to clear their way and secure their backs whilst they broke into the base.

"Red Hand, this is the orbital task force, come in please… I repeat, Red Hand, this is the orbital task force, come in?"

Broken static hissed as Leia watched the _Devastator_ close…

"Red Hand, this is the orbital—"

"_Liberty_, this is Red Hand, we copy. Are you receiving, come in?"

Leia straightened, feeling a burst of relief; would they make it—would they actually make it?

"Red Hand, this is the _Tantive_," Raymus said quickly. "The _Liberty_ is no longer able to receive the data; we've been sent in her place. Report?"

"We're coming under heavy bombardment here—they've already hit our drop-ships and they're now taking out the surrounding airfields. We have…" There was a long break of static, in which Leia held her breath, before the woman's voice continued, her attention clearly divided.

"…blocking our retreat completely. We also have…wait…we're getting comms from Vermillion's group now—they're in the barracks. Are you getting this?"

"Negative, Red Hand. You're the only channel getting through. What's happening?"

"Hold on, incoming comm… _Tantive_, Lieutenant Paol tells me you've lost a shuttle?"

Leia leaned in, hope firing through her. "You have contact?"

"Confirmed, _Tantive_. Paol has the shuttle _Maria's_ crew about a half-mile from my position. Their information is intact but the shuttle's damaged. We're meeting up and we'll combine their information into a single packet with the information from the research station to get it back up to you. We ha…g…be…."

"Red Hand, come in? Do you have the information from the research station… Red Hand, come in?" Raymus straightened, frustration clipping his voice as he turned to the comm officer. "Get her back!"

A veteran of fifteen years with a lifetime's experience as a soldier and bombproof in combat, Leia had never heard him raise his voice before.

.

.

.

As the _Immortal_ rumbled underfoot from her continued barrage of Toprawa's surface, Luke let his gaze wander across the thinning dogfights, eyes caught occasionally by the pinpoint flares as ships and lives were lost in brief, inconsequential flickers. Arms crossed, he watched the _Devastator_ tilt as, its target gone, it turned to join the main battle. "Oh, welcome to the actual fight," he muttered acerbically.

Along the _Devastator's_ flightpath and in low orbit over Toprawa, a CR90 corvette took his attention and he frowned, uncertain whether it was part of the firefight or not. Civilian shipping was always ordered down and tended to get out of the area as fast as possible, but the corvette, hunkering down without firing on anyone and trying not to be noticed, could be a civilian craft unlucky enough to be caught in the center of a full-on firefight and now not knowing which way to turn. Surely a Rebel craft wouldn't be suicidal enough to actually put itself in front of the _Devastator's_ main guns by choice… He glanced behind him, looking for Roth. "Is that a Rebel ship?"

Roth followed Luke's eyes, then looked to the crew pit. "Identify it."

"Unknown ship, this is the ISD _Immortal_," the crew officer said, already leaning into his pick-up as he switched from coded to an open channel. "You're ordered to heave-to and transmit ID."

Luke waited with everyone else, idly watching as the ship skimmed down into a lower orbit. Had they been closer and had he been in command, he would have ordered it shot down by now; practice for the gunners. But he wasn't…and with the loss of the _Liberty_ and the surface plans unsecured, he was reluctant to get caught up in the battle now.

The comm crackled to life on the main speakers. "_Immortal_, this is Captain Raymus Antilles of the civilian freighter _Tantive_ _IV_, requesting clear passage."

Luke frowned, but Antilles was a common surname. Still…he turned to the crew pit. "Where's the _Tantive_ registered?"

The crewman tapped in the trace as Indo stepped forward, his sense instantly watchful. "Luke?"

"Sir, the _Tantive_ _IV_ is registered to a shipping firm on Kattada. Previously the Star of Alderaan, a consular ship. It has no outstanding warrants."

Alderaan… Luke turned pensive eyes to Indo, but it was nothing—nothing he could put his finger on. So why did it bother him? He turned back to the pit. "Pull the ID on…" Luke halted as a flash-image hit like a broadside—the memory of a toy zero-g fighter, being run along the white walls of a consular ship long ago, as his mother smiled indulgently—

"_What do you have there…and who gave you that?"_

"Raymus…Raymus Antilles!" Luke hissed.

Before him, Indo backed up a step at Luke's sudden intensity.

Raymus Antilles was… Luke spun about to Roth—and stopped dead.

He stared at Roth, then back to the crew pit, where several of the officers had begun to raise their heads. It was a conscious effort for Luke to find his voice again as if nothing had happened. "The…the ID on Captain Antilles—last ten years."

Everyone looked away, continuing with their duties as Luke stared without seeing, realization of the name a blow to the gut. He glanced back to the _Tantive_, knowing he should tell Roth it was a Rebel ship, but unable to betray Raymus Antilles, a man he barely remembered from a past he'd long ago learned to suppress. He remembered exactly that small toy given to him by Antilles on his seventh birthday, during that fateful journey to Coruscant… Raymus Antilles, his mother's cousin and Captain in the Alderaanian Royal Guard. Raymus Antilles, who Luke _knew_ with a sudden certainty had been at the Imperial palace on that grim day, though he also knew for a fact that Antilles wasn't listed among those who had attended the trip to Coruscant. Had he tried to help them, Luke wondered; tried and failed to help Bail and Breha Organa escape, but somehow, managed to do so himself? What would a soldier do, when he'd witnessed his cousin's death and narrowly escaped his own? Vaguely, he became aware that someone was talking to him, and turned to see Indo leaning close, face pinched, his words only gradually coming clear.

"Luke…Luke, is there a connection?"

"I don't…"

"Is there a connection?"

Luke frowned, heart pounding, torn by memories he'd all but forgotten. Why was he protecting the man? He glanced back to Solo, who was watching him closely from across the bridge, knowing what the Corellian would say right now; what he'd tell Luke to do…and to Indo, the one constant who had been with him for so long when those like Raymus were gone, knowing what Indo would want…what Palpatine would expect.

He shook his head, pulling himself together, forcing himself back to the moment… "Raymus Antilles was a member of the Alderaanian Royal Guard—he was there on Coruscant, when the assassination took place! The attendance documents from Alderaan must have been falsified, to hide his involvement. If that's Raymus Antilles, that's a Rebel ship."

Captain Roth turned about. "_Tantive_, you're ordered to heave-to and drop your shields."

The ship didn't slow, still powering to a low orbit.

Roth turned to Tactical. "Is she in range?"

"No, sir."

"She's closer to the _Devastator_," Luke said, eyeing the distances. "Why is she staying in its field of fire when…"

"Sir, we've received a distress call—it's coming from the communications center."

Luke turned. "On Toprawa?"

"Yes, Sir."

"The comms center," Luke said quickly. "How far is it from the research station?"

"Sir?"

"How far—on foot?"

"Uh…" The man looked back down to his console, pulling up GPS images. "Not far…reachable, sir."

Luke turned to Roth. "The Rebels are trying to take the comms station to transmit the information out."

"Sir," The comm officer stood to catch the captain's eye. "We have a second comm from the communications center—its perimeter walls have been breached."

Luke turned, realization tightening his chest. "_Devastator_, this is the _Immortal_. You have a CR90 corvette dropping to a low geostationary orbit over Toprawa on a bearing of one-three-one by nine-nine-six by five-zero-one. We believe the ship's attempting communications with the Rebels on Toprawa—it's trying to pick up the data."

"Acknowledged, _Immortal_, we are on an intercept course. You're ordered to cease aerial support of Toprawa garrison and pull back to an intercept course."

It wasn't Vader—which meant they hadn't told him yet, Luke knew. By the time they relayed the message, it would be too late. He glanced to crew pit. "Hold our position. Tactical, get a bearing on the communications center. Target to allow for atmospheric distortion."

Roth turned about. "There are no viable targets about the comms center."

"There's the comm center itself."

"You're suggesting firing on our own installation?" The captain straightened. "You want me to contact Lord Vader and actually ask him for permission to fire on an Imperial structure? It's against every single code in…"

"Stop quoting rules!" Luke was yelling now, still unsettled by Raymus Antilles' unexpected appearance, and driven to distraction by Roth's constant by-the-book conduct. "You're about to lose any control of this situation! You've already lost the initiative, don't lose the target."

"I will not fire on an Imperial installation."

"It's overrun by Rebels! Any Imperials in there are already dead. You're wasting time!"

"I will _not fire_ on an Imperial installation," Roth repeated doggedly, turning away. "Tactical, cease orbital bombardment. Helm, bring us about to intercept the Rebel ship, fastest course."

Luke turned to Indo—and hesitated. "Secondary bridge," he murmured quietly, tensing at the mention of it. He had codes to a Command Protocol given to him by the Emperor himself, that would seal and lock out the main bridge, transferring all control to the secondary bridge at the base of the command tower. He could use them to take over the _Immortal_ now—stop the comm station on Toprawa being useable.

Even the stalwart Indo blanched slightly at this, though it didn't show on his face. "Be sure."

Luke hesitated…and the decision was made for him.

"Sir." It was the comms officer, his voice quiet. "We're detecting transmissions from the surface comms station."

Luke turned quickly. "Tactical, can you take the antenna dish down and leave the emplacement intact—can you make that shot?"

The man pursed his lips and looked to the _Immortal's_ Captain, then, "Yes, Sir, I think I can."

Luke turned to Roth, who glared…but made the call. "Take the shot."

.

.

.

They needed only a minute, Leia knew…

They'd reached low orbit as the Destroyer _Immortal_ had taken out the last of the surface airfields, though it was too far out to be of immediate threat to the _Tantive_—until it began to take notice.

"Unknown ship, this is the ISD _Immortal_. You're ordered to heave-to and transmit ID."

Raymus glanced to Obi-Wan, and tried the only thing he had left: "_Immortal_, this is Captain Raymus Antilles of the civilian freighter _Tantive_ _IV_, requesting clear passage."

Leia stared, amazed at his nerve, as the comms fell to silence. Probably wondering just what the hell was going on and trying to check out the _Tantive'_s credentials, the _Immortal_ held fire. The _Tantive_ wasn't a known Rebel vessel, instead registered to a sham haulage company close to Raymus' home planet of Alderaan, and although Raymus had joined the Alliance long before Leia had arrived, his name had remained always below the official radar…

Raymus leaned on the edge of the comm console, eyes on the closing Star Destroyer as he flicked channels, knowing he'd bought them only seconds. "Toprawa base, come in?" Static, as those about the bridge stared in anxious silence. "Red Hand, come in? Vermillion, come in? I repeat, Vermillion, come in? Toprawa base, come in?"

The hiss rose and fell in tone, then crackled and whined as everyone waited…then a voice came over the comm system…not the one they'd hoped.

"_Tantive_, this is the ISD _Immortal_. You're ordered to heave-to and drop your shields."

Raymus glanced briefly to Obi-Wan, who made the slightest shake of his head, though it wasn't needed; Leia knew Raymus would have no intention of complying. No one spoke, and the _Tantive_ powered forwards.

Leia turned to Gumbrak, the Mon Cal at helm. "How long until the _Immortal_'s in range?"

He rolled glassy eyes, his raspy voice indicating a rough guess. "Thirty seconds…"

"The _Devastator_?"

"Less."

The comm crackled again, and this time the voice which spoke out seemed to Leia far too young to be speaking as it did, from what must have been the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer. "_Tantive_, this is Luke Antilles. We know you're a Rebel vessel. Heave-to, or the _Devastator_ will fire for effect. Last warning."

Leia turned, shocked; Palpatine had sent a Sith to stop them. The Alliance knew almost nothing of Luke Antilles other than his status as a Sith, though even that was only assumed. Found by Palpatine in childhood, the most recent image they had of him was in profile and over a year old, shaky and slightly out of focus. A man of her own age, slight and slim, his build belied the danger that Intel believed he would one day represent to the Alliance. Was that day today? Had the Emperor's new Sith come of age?

Raymus turned decisively. "Tune them out, scan the lower frequencies—no more transmissions from Destroyers, they're blocking any weaker signals."

Seconds stretched as Leia stared through the viewport at the hulking bulk of the _Immortal_…

A young man's voice broke through the static, tense and fraught. "Come in, Skyhook? Come in, Skyhook!"

Raymus leaned instantly forward. "Skyhook here."

"We have only moments! Prepare to copy!"

"Go ahead."

The high tones of a burst-transmission filled the bridge as Leia looked to Obi-Wan, who stared out of the viewport as the _Tantive_ turned to face the still-closing bulk of the _Devastator_.

Raymus glanced across the bridge. "Tactical, put out a message to bring all fighters back onboard, _now_. Anyone not in the hangars gets left behind."

Leia glanced quickly back, but he was right, of course; too much depended on this. The ululating timbre of the burst-transmission ceased…

"The _Immortal's_ firing!"

The comm loosed a final shriek—then fell silent entirely.

"They fired on the station—they fired on Toprawa comm station, Sir. They took out the transmitter dish!"

Raymus spun back to Ops. "Do we have the transmission?"

"Verifying…"

"Sir, the _Devastator's_ almost in range."

"Sir." It was Ops, looking briefly up, her wide, angular ears lifting in excitement. "We have the complete transmission; it's verified."

Raymus turned about as Leia let out a breath. "Tactical, shields up. Helm, get us out of here—start accelerating for lightspeed velocity."

"I don't have a course, Sir."

With the _Immortal _behind and _Devastator_ before them, and the damaged _Vendetta_ coming in to port to force them into Toprawa's atmosphere, Raymus named the only planet that Leia could think of along the narrow strip of open space still left to them.

"Telos—get us out to Telos."

"Sir." It was Ops again. "We have Imperial codes tacked onto the transmission; I can decode their comms."

"Do it."

With the channels open again as Imperial ship-to-ship codes were sliced, the first words they heard were from that same youthful voice, fired by undisguised frustration. "_Devastator_, this is the _Immortal_. The CR90 corvette received a transmission. It has the plans onboard—I repeat, it has the plans onboard."

Raymus looked briefly to Obi-Wan, whose silence—and the confidence that such inferred—gave an ongoing strength of conviction to the Captain's commands.

"Will we make it?" Leia asked, eyes on the _Devastator_, still tilting on its axis towards them.

Immediately the open comm spoke. "Rebel vessel, this is the ISD _Devastator_. You are carrying unauthorized material. Heave-to now or we will open fire."

"Keep going," Raymus said mechanically.

There were no warning shots; the first volley hit them midship, fritzing consoles as the shields glowed.

"Tactical?" Raymus asked.

"Glancing volley, Sir—range-finder. Shields at eighty-six percent."

Even as he said it the second volley came in, a wider spray of far more lasers, knocking the _Tantive_ to the side and rattling her passengers, making them stagger as the lights dimmed momentarily.

"Shields down to seventy-one percent."

"How long 'till we can hit lightspeed?"

"Fourteen seconds, Sir."

A third volley hit, shaking them sufficiently that Leia had to grab for the console to the front of the bridge to remain upright. The lights stayed down for long seconds this time, and somewhere a console sounded a warning tone.

"Shields at fifty percent, Sir. The _Vendetta_ is firing ranging shots to our starboard side."

"Make calculations to tile shields between fore and starboard—and hold course for that jump!"

Leia felt a tingling rush of power beside her as Obi-Wan brought his senses to bear, awareness pushed out into the Force. She watched him as he frowned, closing his eyes…was he trying to reach the Imperial ship? He'd never hold contact at this distance. She stepped closer and added her own focus to his without hesitation; sensed that arrow of power and perception reach out across the void to other minds, skipping from consciousness to consciousness, searching to share their knowledge; whether they were confident of success, doubtful, uncertain…

Then a very different contact; an acuity of vast range, a black hole fired by fury and rage that threatened to drag her down and engulf her…a bolt of recognition energized the unknown connection, a shock that jolted physically through her—

Obi-Wan pulled back, taking her with him and leaving her gasping. She turned, wide-eyed, left breathless and wordless by the unexpected flare of a Sith's scorching presence.

"It's Vader," Obi-Wan said, staring into the void. "Vader's on the _Devastator_."

Leia stared, shocked speechless, chest rising and falling quickly. She'd carried the burden of knowledge as to who her father was for years now—what he was—and had come herself to the realization of the necessity to stop Vader and Palpatine. But this was the closest she'd ever come to actual contact with Vader...and it was terrifying, the black storm of hostility harrowing in its focused resolve. She'd fought her adversaries in the faceless form of the Empire many times; she knew enmity and hatred, but this was…this was her…

"Leia…" Obi-Wan's hand rested lightly on her arm, the calm reassurance that flowed through him a balm which brought her back to the moment. The ship shook beneath her feet, lurching unsteadily as the rain of laser fire slowed, its power aimed to the rear of the Tantive—to its engines.

"_Tantive_, this is the ISD _Devastator_. Heave-to or be destroyed. You will not be warned again."

"He's trying to cut us off," Obi-Wan observed calmly as he turned to Leia, his next words for her alone. "He wants us alive, to take back to his Emperor."

Seeing what was happening, Raymus turned about to the consoles behind him. "Helm, make a course correction; take us well-wide of the _Devastator's_ course."

"Sir, it'll add seconds…"

"Getting caught in a tractor beam will add more," Raymus said tightly. "Wide course."

"Ten seconds to lightspeed."

"Don't wait to be told—go on ready-light."

The young man's voice from the _Immortal_ came again, near-frantic this time. "_Devastator_, this is the _Immortal_—what the hell are you doing? Fire all batteries! That corvette has the plans onboard—I repeat, the corvette under your guns has the plans onboard."

Raymus was leaning forward over the Helm console, every mind on the bridge around Leia willing it to reach escape velocity… She stared at the narrow corridor of open space before them as it lit with tracer fire from the closing _Vendetta_. The _Devastator_ loosed another volley and the _Tantive_ shook pitifully, multiple warnings sounding across the bridge consoles.

"It's through the shields! We have damage to port side levels three through nine, power lines severed and atmospheric breach in the main hangar..."

"Tile remaining shields to the breach!"

Another volley lanced out towards them. The blur of light made Leia stagger back, and for a moment she thought that the _Devastator_ had made a direct hit…but the stars streaked into spirals, and she knew they'd hit lightspeed. They were away!

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Onboard the _Immortal_, Luke watched in outraged silence as the Rebel corvette slid into lightspeed between the two Star Destroyers. Why had Vader held back? What possible reason could he have had!

He turned quickly about, all lesser enmities lost beneath the knowledge that they'd lost their quarry.

"Comms, is the X-wing still transmitting—quickly!"

"Sir?"

Luke glanced back out into the remnants of the battle as the remaining Rebel fighters turned tail and powered for clear courses to lightspeed. "Is the damn X-wing still transmitting?"

"Uh…no, Sir."

"When did it stop—before or after the _Tantive_ _IV_ went to lightspeed?"

"Uh…" The man scanned his boards. "Before, Sir. Just before."

"Open a line to the _Devastator_." Luke glanced triumphantly to Solo, who stared…then straightened, grinning in understanding as Luke raised his voice to be heard on the general comm pickup. "_Devastator_—Vader, I have a transmitter onboard the _Tantive_! We can pick it up when it drops out of lightspeed. It had a narrow breakout corridor and had taken damage, it can't go far before reverting to realspace."

"You have a transmitter onboard the _Tantive_?" Vader's rumbled reply held an edge of interest.

"I placed one onboard an X-wing. We lost the signal moments before the _Tantive_ went to lightspeed—that means it's onboard. We lost the signal because it docked in the _Tantive's_ hangar."

"The signal frequency?" Vader prompted.

"Transmitting now," Luke said, nodding to Comms. "We can make concentric jumps along the _Tantive'_s last trajectory and be waiting—one of us will be close enough to its exit point. It won't make more than ten lightyears with the damage it's sustained."

There was a long silence, in which Luke frowned slightly, looking towards Indo as he turned. Everyone waited tensely before Vader's unmistakable voice came back on the open channel, curt and hasty.

"_Vendetta_, we are transmitting lightspeed co-ordinates and distance. Launch nine scoutships along the prescribed co-ordinates with staggered exit points, then set the final exit point as your destination. All ships are ordered to scan the supplied frequency as soon as they exit lightspeed. If you find the Rebel ship, engage it without delay. _Immortal_…"

Luke straightened, fully expecting to receive the same order.

"You are ordered to remain behind to deal with the situation at Toprawa. Lieutenant Commander Antilles, you will take charge of containing and curtailing all surface insurrection."

"What!"

"You heard my order. Confirm."

Luke actually took a step back, so incensed was he. "Confirm? No, I won't confirm it! That's my transmitter code—that's my X-wing!"

"And this is my mission. You will do as ordered, or you will stand down from duty."

"You've sidelined me twice in this operation, and twice I've pulled your fat from the fire! Now you're tying me to Toprawa while you chase down a lead I created."

"You will confirm the order, or you will stand down. This dissent will already be entered in the ship's log; that you wasted valuable time at a critical phase of the operation. Confirm the order, or I will relieve you of duty."

Luke stepped back again, this time in defeat, his head lowering. He couldn't face Palpatine with those charges levelled at him, and Vader knew it. Looking up, he ground out, "Confirmed, _Devastator_."

"When you have finished your duties here, you may rejoin the battle group," Vader said, mollified. "Until then, you will remain at Toprawa and deal with the insurgents. They are outnumbered and outgunned, it should take you no more than two days. If the battle group is still active, then—and only then—you may rejoin it. The Emperor tells me often that you are to be entrusted with contained tasks as part of your ongoing training. This should be something even you can handle."

Luke remained still as the _Devastator_ angled its massive hull out towards open space and flickered into lightspeed. Stared, jaw ground tight, as localized distortions shuddered and collapsed at the point where it had been just moments before, well aware of the wary silence about him.

Finally he turned and stalked slowly down the center aisle above the crew pits, eyes dead ahead as nervous faces looked quickly away, minds busying themselves with any task. Without once slowing, he exited the bridge and turned into the secondary comms chamber, closing the door behind him.

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From the side walkway, Han watched the kid walk past, face like thunder, barely hanging on to his composure. Like everyone else, he remained still and silent as Luke passed, knowing that the slightest thing could snap that fragile restraint. When the door closed on the comms chamber, Han watched, waiting. A second later, the screeching rend of stressed metal was drowned out by the heavy _whump_ of something big landing with enough power to shake the blast-rated door on its runners. Even Indo didn't go this time.

Long minutes passed in which nobody moved, save for Captain Roth ordering the _Immortal_ to maintain geostationary orbit. It occurred to Han only now that, even if it was to sideline the kid, Vader had put Luke in charge of the rest of this operation, which effectively meant that no one could move without him.

He glanced again to Indo, who merely held Han's eye expectantly… Cursing under his breath, Han set forward for the closed door. He'd just reached it when it slid open, giving him a brief, half-lit glimpse of twisted metal and ruined consoles, torn from their bolted mounts and crushed awkwardly against the wall to the far side of the devastated room…and the kid walked out, still fuming. He glanced once to Han but walked past without slowing, all business.

"Captain Roth, recall all fighters by sequence for refuelling, and have them set formations for inter-atmospheric combat. Priority goes to bombers and escorts, who need to load munitions for a close-surface barrage of military-grade buildings. Have Tactical load dropships with sixteen HAVr-nines, AT-ST support and ground troops, in preparation for a surface assault. And bring the _Immortal_ into geostationary orbit over the Comm station; prepare for an aerial bombardment."

The bridge was an instant flurry of action as seasoned officers moved to get their orders underway. Han walked slowly forward, wary somehow of the kid who stood with such brittle composure at the front of the bridge, eyes on the curve of Toprawa's atmosphere.

Luke turned, voice tight. "Vader said we rejoin the _Devastator's_ battle group when we've dealt with Toprawa—well then, I'll be done by dawn."

"They're pretty dug in to a shielded military bunker by now," Han murmured quietly, trying to keep the doubt from his voice. This wasn't his forté, but Vader's estimate of two days to root them out sounded more realistic. "Surface fighting's always slower."

"Only if you want survivors," the kid said evenly, then turned away. "Comms, get me the ground-based duty officer, and start a separate channel for updates, five-minute intervals, whether they're requested or not. Have all existing ground troops pull back. Tactical, make calculations to start levelling the land around the Comm station—if they run, I want our troops to see them. And Ops…" he paused just slightly, "have a repair team report to comms chamber two; it's sustained damage."

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It took nine hours. Nine hours, in which the kid didn't once leave the bridge.

He turned on Toprawa with a vengeance, fuming that Vader had left him behind and looking to bring the ground battle to a conclusive end. He even went so far as to send local law enforcement into the surrounding civilian districts to ensure that they were clean of insurgents, bringing in anyone with an existing record for interrogation, with an order to send any who didn't pass muster up to the _Immortal_. Considering that they were leaving orbit in hours, none of them would be returning to Toprawa, Han knew. You could say it was decisive, he supposed. You could say it was ruthless. It was certainly effective.

Standing back and watching, listening to the comms as images came up from the surface, Han had never realized before how clean a battle was when you were a pilot, removed from the gritty realities of the minute-by-minute struggle played out on the bridge.

When you were a pilot, you got in your TIE, you flew, you did your work, you left. The battlefield cleaned itself, returning to a still silence that hadn't changed for millennia. You were no more than a blip, a momentary aberration, a flash of blood and metal and enemies and allies. It was brief and intense and chaotic and surreal, but it came and went within an hour. Even if it didn't, you couldn't keep a TIE out for much more than that without refuelling, so battles for a pilot were short and clean somehow. You didn't hear your enemies. You didn't see the carnage transmitted in gory detail as it gouged the planet like a scar. In a dogfight, people died or they jumped from the battle. You didn't see this; the final mop-up of failing defenses.

They broke the Rebel's comm codes early; about two hours in. The ability to transmit extra-planetary was hastily restored with a temporary field unit, so that all Rebel communications could be intercepted and transmitted up to the _Immortal_. They didn't jam them, just listened as crackling, static-riddled orders were passed in ever more grim and desperate voices. Pre-empted each move before it was even made. That was worse, somehow; to hear them struggle hour on hour, to hear them tire, to hear them falter.

He'd never known how dire it became; how dirty and punishing, blow on blow. How pitiless you had to be, to be able to keep up that unyielding pressure. How hard it became to listen to that hissing, broken transmission, the voice of the woman leading them barely audible over the temporary comm as she tried to hold them together whilst superior numbers and weaponry came to bear, continually falling back, their transports destroyed, knowing they had no way out. That they wouldn't be leaving Toprawa alive. They didn't even know if their attempt to send the plans had succeeded; the barrage from the _Immortal_ had taken out the base's original long-range transmitters before they'd had confirmation either way, so all they knew when day bled to night and they saw a still sky above, was that the space battle was over. All they knew was that their last order had been to hold their present position as long as possible.

Turned out that was just after midnight. The last day they ever saw was less than an hour long…it had probably been the longest hour of their lives.

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They got the comm soon after; the _Tantive_ had been taken with all hands by the _Devastator_ itself, close to Telos. The mission was over. The battle group was disassembled and its Destroyers ordered to return to normal duty; the _Immortal_ would remain at Toprawa to maintain order without Luke's presence. The ISD _Formidable_ would pass by in three hours to transport them back to Coruscant.

Luke had retreated to the executive office to the rear of the bridge and sat, fingers interlaced, hands clenched before his mouth, staring in silence at the empty desk. Standing beside a quietly pleased Indo, Han had no idea whether the kid was shaking his head in guilt, regret, frustration…

But the worst blow was held for last—wasn't it always?

The final report of the surface battle came in as the _Formidable_ maneuvered alongside in preparation to take them onboard. The kid had waited to watch Commander Litt make his report, finally standing inside the barricaded vaults where the Rebels had made their last stand. They were identified from their unit insignia as Red Hand Squadron, a self-contained Rebel unit apparently known mostly for their work against the illegal slave trade. Not knowing whether their mission to get the plans out had succeeded or not, but knowing absolutely that they had to protect what they knew, they'd taken suicide pills.

The grim facts were relayed via the holo transmitter set into the surface of the desk in the executive office, as Commander Litt took the opportunity to voice his congratulations to the man in charge for a job well done; a complete Rebel unit eliminated. A few images were sent up as he spoke, and Han looked away. Why did you know, even on a small holo—how could you look at a corpse, and _know_ that it wasn't someone sleeping?

Even Luke seemed ill at ease. "I was doing my duty, Commander. Do you have confirmation that this was the entire unit?"

"Yes, sir. The numbers are right, and we have all their ringleaders: Hyx, Corporal Burrid, Lieutenant Paol, and the unit Commander, Bria Tharen."

It was a blow to Han's guts as he turned, horrified. Luke lunged out to slap his hand over the image transmitter in the desk, blocking the holo as it tracked slowly over the dead, his eyes going instantly to Han. "Tharen?"

Commander Litt continued, unaware. "Corellian woman, quite a good family. Good upbringing, good education…got caught up with the t'landa Til and the glitterstim trade, then fell below the radar…can't fall much lower than the Rebellion. One less to worry about."

"Yes," Luke murmured. "Thank you, Commander. _Immortal_ out."

Han stared as the light from the hologram Luke was covering dissipated, feeling sick. Physically sick.

"It was Bria, wasn't it?" He didn't need to ask, not really.

The kid stared at him for a long, stretched moment, but managed only a broken whisper. "I'm sorry, Han—I'm so sorry…"

He stared at the kid's hand, still splayed over the holo transmitter though the image was gone, and remembered again Bria's hands; delicate little hands, cut to ribbons by handling glitterstim. Remembered those big, serious eyes. It had been her all this time, handing out orders, holding it together. Her, growing ever more desperate. Her, knowing she'd never survive this…

And he'd been right here, watching the kid take her unit apart, listening to them struggle. Watching the _kid_ and thinking how self-controlled, how detached you had to be, to be able to keep up that pressure, directed mercilessly and without hesitation against a failing enemy. Against…

Luke straightened slightly, voice tentative, almost childlike. "…Han?"

Beside Han, Indo turned, realizing that something was happening. "What's this about?"

The kid didn't answer and Han sure as hell couldn't. All he knew was that he couldn't be there. He turned and walked quickly out of the office and off the bridge without once looking back.

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A light knock on the door to his room onboard the _Formidable_ brought Han's head up. He'd transferred over from the _Immortal_ on one of the cargo shuttles, not yet able to look the kid in the eye after Bria's death. The night shift that had seen the battle end, had turned to the day shift as they'd transferred over to the _Formidable_, and he was now two hours late for duty, yet he couldn't bring himself to stand up and start moving, and do all those normal things like shave and get his jacket on and get out there. Couldn't bring himself to look the kid in the eye.

So he was still sitting, staring at the glowing holos of Red Hand Squadron that he'd pulled from the military mainframe, when the knock to his door came. It slid open without invitation, so Han didn't need to turn to know it was the kid. As ever when he knew he'd done wrong, though, Luke didn't enter. Just hovered at the doorway.

Han pursed his lips, staring at the holo images as they scrolled through. Two of the men they'd clearly had no images of, so they'd used those taken at Toprawa, the dead men's eyes half-open, jaws slack. He'd watched the images scroll for almost an hour, taking in the faces of those who'd been with her at the end. Jace Paol, Daino Hix, Sk'kot Burrid, Larens, Mecht, Renna…all marked deceased, already. The Empire was nothing if not efficient. Then Bria's name came around again, with a blank screen.

He heard movement as Luke stepped tentatively forward. "They didn't have an image of her."

"Really?" Han said levelly. "Because it says here it was removed by Ubiqtorate command."

Silence hung as the kid moved uneasily. "I only vetoed the…the Toprawa image."

Han nodded without speaking, and the kid came up beside his chair and crouched down to rock on his heels, arms still wrapped about himself as he watched the images change. Han scrolled to 'image only,' to see their faces clearer.

Beside him, Luke spoke quietly. "Burrid…Daino….Hix…Larens…"

Han half-turned as Luke recited the names from memory as each image came up. Watched the kid as he stared at them, his drawn face lit by the holo's shuttered glow. He didn't look like he'd had much sleep either. "You learned their names…why?"

Kid looked down. "I don't know."

"…What was the name of the Sinto spy?"

"Kern Derrig…first lieutenant."

Han frowned. "The Rebel from the listening post?"

"Keev Kline."

"You remember them all?"

Luke turned, finally looking Han in the eye. "I didn't know she was there. I wouldn't have…" He looked away, head dropping, arms tightening about himself as he stared at the floor. Twice he tried to start speaking, and twice he broke off without a word. When he finally did, there was something near desperation in his voice. "You should just punch me."

"What?"

"Hit me. Seriously, it's okay. You'll feel a lot better…and so will I."

Han recoiled, realizing the kid was serious. "I'm not gonna hit you."

"I won't stop you, I know I messed up." He shrugged, resigned. "I generally do."

Comprehension left Han cold; that the kid had come in here so that Han could explode at him, because that was what people did with him when they were angry. That was what Palpatine did.

"I'm not angry at you, I'm just…" It wasn't even true—or hadn't been, when the kid had come in. Now, listening to him reel off the names, listening to him seriously offering to let Han turn on him, willing to take the blame for something that no kid should have been told to do in the first place… "Sometimes stuff isn't clean-cut. Sometimes it's messy and offensive and…I don't know, just hard to take."

Luke looked down again, rocking slightly on his heels. "Palpatine would…would say that this is an opportunity."

"To do what?"

Luke glanced away, the uncertainty in his hesitant words telling. "I took away the one thing you care about. He'd…he'd tell you it makes you stronger, to do that."

"What do you think?"

The kid rocked on his heels again. "I don't know. I think it makes you wary of ever taking that chance again—being hurt like that again…so I guess you learn. Learn not to let anybody in. Learn not to care."

"How's that working out?"

The kid looked down without speaking—but then he'd already answered. He'd answered when he'd known the names of everyone in Red Hand Squadron.

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Leia sat in the pilot's seat of the Wookiee heavy scoutship that she, Chewie and Obi-Wan had taken in the rush to get the Death Star plans safely away from the _Tantive _over Telos, staring out at her worst nightmare.

They'd paired off with Biggs Darklighter, the plans safely loaded onto Leia's astromech unit before he'd been loaded into Biggs' X-wing in preparation to make a break from the _Tantive_ as the _Devastator_ pulled it in. Two elements, each of a scoutship and an X-wing, had set off on different courses to confuse any later readings as to who exactly carried the plans and which way they'd gone.

But somehow, when they'd come out of hyperspace at a scheduled stop halfway to Yavin, the Empire had caught up with them. Whether it had been by coincidence or design, they had no way of knowing.

All they could do was try to piece the facts together. Biggs, in a lighter, faster craft, had probably come out of lightspeed perhaps half an hour before them, and had waited in a little-used and barely mapped pocket of space for their arrival, to synchronize before they made the last leg of their journey. The Imperial frigate couldn't have arrived more than minutes before the heavily armored Wookiee scoutship which carried Leia, Obi-Wan and Chewie—but it must have come out almost on top of Biggs' X-wing with guns blazing, because Leia knew damn well that Biggs was a first-class pilot, and for them to have taken him, they must have been ready.

They'd picked up the heavy frigate that had caught Biggs on long-range scans, and tailed from a safe distance, worrying every moment that the frigate would simply go to lightspeed and be untraceable. Wondering why it hadn't…

Then _it_ had arrived, the ripple of its emergence into realspace causing a flux that had rocked the frigate unsteadily in its wake and impacted on their scoutship sufficiently to dim its shields, even this far back.

And with a horrible, sickening recognition, Leia knew that she was staring at the reason for Operation Skyhook's inception. The very thing they'd fought so hard to uncover, in hopes of destroying it before it became a reality, was hulking, massive and foreboding, in space before them.

They'd known, of course, that it was near completion—but not complete and operative, as it so clearly was. Beside Leia, Chewbacca had howled a long refrain, part anger, part anguish. It had been his people who had given their freedom and their lives to build this monument to Palpatine's egotistical power. He'd been one of the lucky ones—he'd escaped…with unexpected help. And he'd dedicated his life to bringing down the Empire that had decimated and enslaved his people. Staring at the behemoth before her, sensing the taint of death already about it, it was Leia who first thought to wonder whether it had been the firing of this monstrosity which had caused the sickening, twisted wave of raw anguish that had ripped out into the Force just weeks ago.

They'd watched in morbid fascination for long minutes, each lost in their own thoughts and fears and broken hopes before, on some unspoken cue, they'd stirred and pulled themselves back to the moment—and what they could do to change it.

"I say we go in," Leia said firmly, watching the massive frigate dock, dwarfed by the immense scale of the Death Star.

Beside her, Chewie didn't even hesitate before keening his approval.

"Indeed?" Obi-Wan's voice was that familiar mix of pacific patience, mild incredulity and private amusement.

"Yes!" Leia said, glancing to Chewie for support. "They have Biggs, and they have the plans we need—more so than ever, now."

"You believe that this is a fight we can win?" Obi-Wan asked, always pushing her to make her decisions wisely.

"I'm not going to leave Biggs—or the plans."

Beside her, Chewbacca turned half-round to bark his approval.

Obi-Wan studied them both for long seconds…then acquiesced with a tilt of his head. "Very well. But there are alternatives to fighting…"

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To be continued...

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	15. Chapter 15

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**CHAPTER 15**

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Han walked briskly from the staff room in the palace, heading for the library where the kid was in lessons, reflecting how familiar this had all become in just six months. Not simply the palace in its significance and its dour, drab, intimidating scale, but the daily intricacies of life here, even at this level. The games that were played.

It had taken him awhile, for instance, to figure out just what exactly Therne Gorn's place was here. He had to admit that he'd initially wondered just what exactly Gorn did, that Indo had been so willing to extend his commission for yet another year. Not that he didn't like the guy; he had a kind of upbeat, flippant optimism that only youth could muster, and seemed to breeze through his working day with little or no interest in the concept of work, per se. In fact, Han had to question whether the admittedly affable and undeniably sociable young man did anything at all, because to the untrained observer, it seemed pretty much like he either lounged around in the staff office and commed people a lot, or disappeared for hours with a datapad and some vague excuse under his arm, servicing the huge network of acquaintances he seemed to have built up, rather than actually working—or even interacting with the kid that much.

It had been a good while before Han had put together Gorn's apparently endless fascination with the minutiae of everyone's business inside the palace, no matter how insignificant, with his extended commission. Because the fact was, Gorn was the guy who put all the gossip together and knew something on everyone. Gorn, Han had slowly realized, was the palace mole.

If there was information to be had, Gorn would dig it up. He was their eyes and ears on the ground; grassroots knowledge gained from countless other aides and assistants, who often knew more about their seniors' private dealings than any complex automated observation system could hope to gather in this hotbed of high-end surveillance and counter-surveillance.

And while it was mostly the kind of stuff that made their daily life just a little easier, occasionally, just occasionally, he came up trumps.

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Han walked into the library with only a brief token knock, not pausing despite the fact that a lesson was in progress.

"You're gonna love this," he said with relish.

The tutor stuttered to a halt as Luke looked up through the desktop holo he'd been studying, where a series of tactical pointers were arranged around two planets within some system, with a time stamp ticking in the corner.

To the rear of the room, Indo stood, voice raised. "Lieutenant Solo! If you have something you need to bring to my attention then you will wait until..."

"Yours? No," Han said simply, continuing forward.

He and Indo had hardly seen eye to eye over the last few days. They hadn't even gotten back to Coruscant before Indo had pulled Han to one side and basically ordered him to stop making the kid dwell on Toprawa. Han had no idea if Luke had told Indo the truth about Bria Tharen, but either way, Indo knew something was going on and he didn't like it. Didn't like that Luke was, for probably the first time, actually seeing the repercussions of his actions at the Emperor's command. Han had to wonder how carefully both Palpatine and, at his directive, Indo, had insulated the kid from such effects, so that he'd do exactly as he was told without question.

He wasn't particularly interested in buying into that game, and had told the viscount so in no uncertain terms.

It didn't exactly go down well. Han was very much aware that though they tried to hold it together in front of the kid, he and the viscount were pretty much at loggerheads. And it didn't help that Luke was beginning to seek out Han's opinion occasionally these days, firstly 'cos Indo was used to ruling the roost, and secondly because it seemed like whatever the subject, Han's opinion on it was almost always the polar opposite of Indo's. But this one surely had to get everyone on the same side.

"Go on?" Luke stared expectantly, his small frame swamped by the huge proportions of the cluttered library desk.

Indo stepped immediately forward. "This will wait until your lessons are over and…"

"No." The kid didn't turn, his voice quiet. "I want to hear it."

Han flashed a brief, self-righteous grin at Indo before turning back to the kid, who had nodded at his tutor. The man left in tactful silence, and he'd barely closed the door before Han spoke.

"Apparently there was a transmission that went through Intel between the _Devastator _and the 501st, and Gorn has a friend of a friend who works in comms—surprise, surprise. Seems like after an extensive search, a certain set of plans weren't onboard the _Tantive_."

"How were the plans not onboard?"

"Well, apparently they _had been_ there," Han explained, repeating what Gorn had just told him, and Han had traded a four-hour shift to be the one to pass it on to the kid. "But when the _Devastator_ locked tractor beams onto the _Tantive_, two X-wings and two heavy scoutships launched from its lower dock, using the _Tantive's_ bulk to protect them from the tractor beams. One of them had the plans onboard."

"They didn't catch them?"

"They didn't know. All four took a straight course, using the _Tantive_ as a sensor shadow. The moment they were clear of the tractor beam's range, they paired off into two elements of a scout and an X-wing, and jumped in opposite directions."

Luke frowned. "But the task force has been disassembled—that means its mission was considered complete."

"This is the great bit: Gorn doesn't think Vader's told the Emperor yet. The message to the 501st included the transmission frequency of our tagged X-wing. Their priority right now is to track it down, because it's the best lead they have to the others. That message went directly from the _Devastator_ to the 501st…there wasn't any addendum or copy to the palace."

Luke glanced to Indo, who stood in silence to the side of the drab room, taking the facts in.

"So one of the ships that made a break for it was our tagged X-wing," he reasoned. "You're sure Vader doesn't have the plans? He could simply be trying to track the X-wing back to the _Liberty_."

"He could," Han allowed. "But since his message to the palace confirmed the capture of the _Tantive IV,_ and he then disassembled the task force, I'd say he's trying to put out the message that the plans are secure."

"And the Emperor doesn't know this yet?"

"Gorn's had a casual chat with his contact in the Emperor's Cabinet. They didn't receive a message from Vader in the last ten hours…the message to the 501st went out seven hours ago. Sounds to me like someone's jumped the gun in dismantling the task force, and is now trying to get it all back under control before he has to come clean to the old m—" Han cut himself off, remembering that Indo was there. "To the Emperor."

Luke set his head to one side, voice laced with laconic malice. "Well then, I feel it's my loyal duty to keep my Master informed."

Kid had been hurt as much as Han had by all that had happened, in his own way. Except that Han wasn't looking for someone to blame…and Luke was not only looking, he already had a target in mind, in the form of the man who'd ordered him to stay at Toprawa: Vader.

Indo moved slightly. "I'd advise caution."

Luke turned. "Because?"

"Think carefully; doing this now places you in direct contention with Lord Vader. The Emperor won't protect the source of this information."

The kid straightened in his chair. "I'm not afraid of Vader."

"You've done this once before—taken information about Lord Vader's dealings to the Emperor—and Vader came after you with a vengeance. You were younger then. You're not a child anymore, Luke, you're already a threat to Vader. You do this, and you make yourself a target."

Kid glanced away. "I'm already a target, don't you always say that?"

"This is an openly hostile move. You're not ready yet."

"The opportunity is now."

"And the fact is that if the message travelled between two ships of the fleet, then the Emperor probably knows."

"Which doesn't invalidate my bringing it to him publicly, so he can act on it."

"You don't need to redress your actions with the prisoner Odom." Indo glanced briefly to Han, who lifted his chin as the Viscount continued. "A lot has happened since then, and despite what others may tell you, you conducted yourself well at Toprawa. You're presently in a position of strength."

"I'm returning from what turns out to be a failed mission."

"Which you weren't aware of, having been left to deal with Toprawa. Vader was in charge of retrieving the plans."

"All the more reason to clarify what's happened and give the Emperor justification to act against him. I'm not going to be put in that situation again—when I'm answering to Vader in a campaign that should have been mine. And I'm sure as hell not holding back information about Vader's mistakes."

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Palpatine settled into his chair as the towering double-doors to the Cabinet were opened and the boy, Antilles, walked through, his sense a bright flare of anticipation. Behind him, Viscount Indo and the Corellian stepped quietly into the otherwise empty room, all those who would generally be in attendance dismissed. The boy never sought him out unless he had something of relevance to say, Palpatine knew, and it was seldom the kind of discussion to be shared openly.

He considered that fact, as the boy walked forward…boy; he was almost a man now. Still slim and slight, which could easily have been the end result of Palpatine's decision to repeatedly deprive him of the essentials of life in those early years. But the child had needed to be taught somehow, and basic lessons required basic methods.

Antilles slowed just slightly, perhaps sensing the play of his Master's thoughts, but he didn't break stride, walking forward alone with just the barest edge of unease—which was a good thing. Every moment of their interaction was an object lesson for the boy and he knew it; one should never let one's guard down in the presence of a Sith Master.

He'd never intended to teach the boy this much; had originally thought to train him as a Hand and use him as he had others. But they had formed a certain bond in those early years, himself and the child, and perhaps that too had been of Palpatine's doing; his amusement at Vader's expense, his appreciation of his own private ploy. But the recreation had become a reformation of sorts, as he'd taken ever more interest in a child so clearly capable of so much. And children, they were so very unburdened by the detritus of customary moral codes—or at least, such things were fresh, and therefore easy to dismantle. Given the right circumstances, they learned with impressive speed—and the boy showed his knowledge now, stopping exactly three steps from his Master and stepping down without hesitation onto one knee, head bowed.

"And what do you have to say, child, that you come to me with such anticipation?"

The boy stood but kept his head down though his sense, if not his tone, was wily. "I came for clarification, Master."

"Regarding?"

"The ongoing mission, following Toprawa."

He had done well at Toprawa; Palpatine had listened with interest to the standard recordings taken on the bridge of any Destroyer in a battle situation, and had been pleased with the boy's decisive actions when he had been given the task of suppressing the incursion there—sufficiently so that his chastisement for earlier mistakes had been, if not overlooked, then at least mitigated. Palpatine knew, of course, of the disruption that had followed. Viscount Indo had provided his usual succinct report in which, without ever being so impolitic as to mention it outright, he had nonetheless implicated the Corellian's undesirable influence. As astute as he was, the Viscount rather failed to see the point, Palpatine suspected.

"Toprawa is a closed mission, child."

The boy straightened. "Then Lord Vader continues to look for the plans alone?"

"The plans have been…" Palpatine paused, knowing as he spoke that Antilles had more. "Go on?"

"The _Devastator _and the 501st are still trying to track down the Death Star plans, lost during their mishandled capture of the _Tantive_. The only lead they have is the code to a transmitter which I placed on a Rebel X-wing, intending to follow it back to its home base. I provided Lord Vader with the transmitter code over Toprawa, but he refused me permission to pursue it."

Palpatine leaned slowly back with sufficient force that the heavy chair creaked beneath him. "Yet Vader dismantled the task force."

"Hence my confusion, Master."

He should have realized, of course, Palpatine reflected. The boy should have been the key to unlocking the truth without his having needed to come here with facts, for the simple reason that Lord Vader had not yet returned to the palace. He had, theoretically, completed a successful task—one that had been removed from the boy's control and handed very specifically over to him. For Vader not to return immediately and use that fact to usurp the boy further should have been reason in itself for Palpatine to wonder.

"I will speak with Lord Vader," he stated portentously at last. The boy radiated a buzz of silent pleasure at having scored a strike against his longstanding opponent, bringing Palpatine's attention to him. "You did well to bring this to me."

"I did my duty, Master."

"Really? Or did you take the opportunity to discredit Lord Vader."

"You know I'd do either without hesitation, Master." The boy's pale eyes were fired by sparking malice. "In this instance, can I not do both?"

Palpatine grinned as he settled back; when the mood was on him, the boy could be both amusing and useful. "We will speak again shortly."

Recognizing his dismissal, Antilles bowed again and backstepped before turning to leave. Palpatine waited until they were at the door before saying casually, "Viscount Indo."

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Indo held back as the doors closed, then turned and walked forward to bow low, deferential as ever. It was a trait that had made him of great value over the years, so Palpatine didn't resent the occasional reassurance—as long as the man remained of value.

"You are…worried about Lieutenant Solo's influence on the boy," he intoned solemnly.

Some sense of protection smoldered in the man, though it could easily be of his investment, rather than the boy himself. Past experience had proven that Indo was more than willing to cede to the Emperor's will in all things—which was why he remained here, and he knew it—so it was his hard-won rapport with his charge that Indo generally sought to preserve, rather than some perceived closeness to the boy himself. There had always been a danger that Indo would, in time, come to replace his lost son with the boy he had been charged to rear—to a certain extent, it was inevitable, as it should have been. But Palpatine had chosen with care, and Indo, hardly close to his own son despite his ambitions for the boy, had maintained a discrete distance between himself and his new charge. Still, to have that rapport—and so his status—threatened by an outsider would be intolerable for the viscount.

It would have been interesting to play the two against each other for a while, the viscount and the Corellian, particularly as Solo came to understand the viscount's methods. Indo was of the kind who categorized his view of the galaxy into neat and tidy boxes based on strong and deeply-seated views with no allowances made, ever. He cared fastidiously for the boy and yet, as he had with his own son, Indo had made an art out of dismissing or wilfully ignoring anything as awkward or inconvenient as to hamper or compromise those neatly organized goals and ambitions on another's behalf.

The spice, or the boy's constant illicit excursions from the palace, were perfect examples. According to Palpatine's sources Indo had at first ignored, then banned, and eventually, weighing his personal distaste against their apparently stabilizing effects, had sought to manage such things rather than have to deal with the upheaval and discord which would accompany their removal. They were inconvenient truths, but their removal may derail the boy's ongoing progress and stability, and so they were integrated and tolerated, albeit behind closed doors. Such facts were never mentioned in the viscount's general reports, of course, but would be disclosed in the most coded of terms upon a direct query from the Emperor himself.

The viscount would, simply put, do all that was necessary to fulfil his ambitions without compunction…but with a good deal of discretion and diplomacy. He would be, in equal parts, loyal to, ambitious for, and coolly ruthless with the boy…the perfect tutor for any child.

But a growing child needed to be exposed to new influences, and so came the stout and stalwart Lieutenant Solo. So Palpatine smiled into the viscount's unease at the arrival of someone who could not be fitted into one of his neat compartments; that was, after all, Solo's value.

"You have no reason to worry, Viscount. Rest assured that Lieutenant Solo's views and actions have already singled him out in my attention, and he is well on his way to becoming another object lesson for my young advocate on the inadvisability of forming attachments."

The viscount's unspoken relief streamed silently out into the Force as Palpatine continued.

"We have created a glorious hothouse flower, my friend. It's time to harden it for its life beyond these walls. We cannot be there every second of every day to monitor every miscreant and malcontent that the boy comes into contact with, and I need to know that I can trust my new Hand to hold faith in such circumstances. Better that he be open to such a test now, and learn the inadvisability of listening while he is here in a controlled environment, where any misstep on his part can be corrected, than to risk his coming into close contact with such undesirable elements and concepts for the first time in a situation beyond my immediate control. So you see, even Lieutenant Solo has his uses…however brief. Let the boy become attached, let him listen. Let him be taken in by claims of amity and loose promises of friendship—Solo is nothing if not charismatic. I'm aware of his influence in recent matters, but the boy needs to learn to dismiss such things, and not stumble in his duty or resolve. I could not—will not—tolerate such a thing. You may rest easy, my friend." Palpatine proffered another empty smile. "This is simply one more lesson. It will be over soon enough."

The viscount calmed, though Palpatine told him no more—nor would he wish to know it. He was well aware that he returned to a charge who read minds as others read the screen of a datapad, and genuinely worked hard to remain always trustworthy in the boy's eyes. He'd learned long ago that the less he knew, the less he could be perceived of as being involved in, by the boy.

And for himself, the Emperor had long since realized that to give the boy one very carefully chosen ally was a useful thing indeed. Indo was the constant who had invested the time and methods necessary to make the child of use after Palpatine had ensured his loyalty, and he'd done so without ever overstepping his mark. Though even such props as this had to be removed eventually…

Palpatine broadened his smile, and put such thoughts away for later consideration. "In the meantime, the boy's education continues apace. Tell me more of Toprawa."

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The summons to return to the Emperor's presence came as dusk was slowly settling, lighting the evening with hazy bands of red and amber which painted the Capital's buildings in warm hues.

In the soaring splendour of the somber palace, things weren't moving to that same stately pace. With Indo still nowhere to be seen, Han had set out alone with the kid to reach the massive outer hall of the Cabinet, now devoid of people. Those who actually implemented the day-to-day governing of the vast Empire were already gone, while those who came simply to curry and barter power in the cut-throat arena of Court were not yet admitted. But the immense, dark chamber that had once seemed so daunting to Han was now little more than a passing impression of echoing footsteps and deep shadows; simply a space to cross on their journey to a far less abstract menace.

Saté Pestage, the ever-present keeper of the gate, was the only presence here, and he nodded in a half-bow, eyes briefly on the kid—Han had always been below his notice—as the great double-doors slid smoothly back.

Han was three steps into the Audience Chamber before he noticed Indo standing to one side of the vast hall, almost level with the dais. Uncertain whether he'd been here for the entire afternoon, Han walked to join him, noting that the usual glare of open aversion he received from the viscount was replaced today by a brief self-satisfied stare. Instead, Indo kept his attention on the kid, nodding approvingly as Luke glanced over without slowing, continuing to hold a center line in the dim hall as he walked to the cowled figure who sat on the raised dais to the far side of the vast chamber. That darkening sky bled a shuttered amber glow across the polished floor, uncut by artificial light.

"What's goin' on?" Han murmured to Indo, only to be shushed to instant silence.

Luke reached Palpatine and dropped to one knee, something that always unsettled Han; Courtiers bowed and military men snapped a smart salute, but only the kid seemed to be expected to kneel.

The Emperor's grating voice was without discernible intent, either good or bad. "I have listened to the recordings from the _Immortal's_ bridge during the skirmish at Toprawa, and read the logs of those present. Do you believe your actions were fitting to the situation?"

Han saw the kid's shoulders square slightly, though he remained on one knee. "I believe we didn't need to lose the plans."

"And what would you have done?"

"I would have destroyed them, rather than lose them."

"And my military complex with them?"

"…Yes, Master."

"Tell me Lord Vader's error?"

"The task force's directive was to secure the Death Star plans—that was their priority. I understand that the _Liberty_ is an ongoing target, but two Destroyers wouldn't have reliably brought her down, whereas they would have had a guaranteed effect on the battle to protect the plans."

"I understand that you considered using the Command Protocol?"

Han frowned, glancing briefly to Indo, not knowing what it was or remembering its mention. It occurred to him as he looked to the viscount, who stared resolutely ahead, that if he hadn't heard its mention, then the kid must have spoken privately to Indo about it…and that Indo had clearly informed the Emperor. He looked back as the kid answered, his tone gaining a wary edge.

"Yes, Master."

"You chose not to."

"Yes."

"Because events overtook you?"

"No, Master. I believe I could have engaged the protocol in good time, but I had insufficient reliable personnel to control a Star Destroyer in a combat situation, and if I was unable to achieve that goal, then to reveal the existence of the code seemed…inappropriate."

"The boy learns!" Palpatine said—as near to praise as Han had ever heard from the old man. "Stand, child." The Emperor made a loose gesture with one pale hand. "You would have disobeyed Lord Vader's command?"

"I didn't believe Lord Vader's directive was in your interest, Master—and yours is the only command that's incontestable."

Han stared, not knowing if Luke was saying what he knew the old man wanted to hear, or what he believed—because he heard not a shadow of doubt in the kid's steadfast voice. What had it been at Toprawa then, when the kid had hunched beside him and recited the names of those he'd killed on the old man's command? Because they couldn't both be real. Or was that what this was all about—was that why the kid was so messed up? Was he torn between ingrained loyalty, and a conscience that fired in brief broken sparks, before it was beaten down beneath an absolute iron will which demanded no less than total, unconditional obedience.

If it was true, then the old man seemed supremely confident that he could maintain his hold. He leaned back, the shadow he cast stretching out across the room as he paused in consideration. Finally he seemed to come to some decision, which changed his voice to a more businesslike tone.

"The Devastator is en-route to the Death Star. Grand Moff Tarkin informs me that a frigate in service with the 501st arrived there today with a single prisoner, and a Rebel X-wing in tow."

The kid's voice sharpened. "They've caught Darklighter?"

"Darklighter?"

"The Rebel pilot. He was present at the Cron Drift skirmish, which was where I attached the tracker to his X-wing. He was identified there by voice wave, because he's an ex-Imperial pilot, Master. He trained at a Sector Naval Academy"

"You're well informed with the facts of this matter."

"It was my mission—and on track, before Lord Vader lost the plans…and ruined any chance at tracing the _Liberty_."

The old man leaned back, amused. "Indeed…then perhaps you should retake command, child. I return your assignment to you…along with a further directive. You will travel to the Death Star in my name, holding a personal mandate from myself which will put you above all others. I want the stolen plans in my hands, I want the Rebel pilot dead, I want any fallout dealt with, and I want this matter put to rest. I hereby grant you any and all authority necessary to achieve that."

Luke's voice faltered. "Me?"

"You have brought this information to me…and as you continually assert, you're not a child anymore. I'm most pleased with your efforts, now and at Toprawa, so I will award you this opportunity. Or would you prefer to remain here, whilst I send someone more…experienced?"

The kid paused, and if the Emperor couldn't detect the wariness in his voice, Han sure as hell could. "No, Master."

"Very well then," Palpatine said expectantly.

Luke clicked his heels in a military salute as he bowed from the neck, then turned to leave. To the side of the hall Han straightened, eager to do the same—

"Wait." The Emperor's sharp command stopped both Han and Luke dead.

Han watched the kid's shoulders brace as he turned about, though this time the Emperor tipped his head in a condescending smile. "There will be a new commission waiting for you before you leave. I can hardly send a lieutenant commander to do the Emperor's bidding, can I?"

"Thank you, Master." The kid's voice was perfectly level, no hint of pleasure expressed.

"Remember when you step onboard the Death Star that you do so with my mandate, and comport yourself accordingly. In the future, an extended period of command there may be an advantageous experience. You may view it as a future goal as your rank increases, should you continue to please."

Luke glanced down in silence, and the Emperor's tone changed, all indulgence instantly gone. "You don't wish such an accolade?"

The kid hesitated, searching for his words. "I think the Death Star would be better suited to another, Master."

"And why would that be?"

"I'll do as you command, of course."

The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "It's a little late to offer platitudes, child."

"It's not what I trained for, which—"

"Your future will take the path _I_ dictate. You will serve in whichever way I see fit." The Emperor's voice was cooling by degrees as his hands tightened like claws on the heavily-carved chair arms.

"Yes, Master."

Palpatine remained silent for long seconds, still leaning forward as he had done to deliver his last words…then slowly he straightened and settled, one curved fingernail tapping on the chair arm. "You cannot take one single commendation without turning it into a dispute, ungrateful creature that you are. If I assign you to the Death Star, you will remain there and fulfil your duties until you are released from them."

"Yes, Master."

"If I order you to remain here by my side until the end of your days, you will do so without opposition, do you understand?"

The kid's shoulders tensed involuntarily, but he kept his eyes down and his voice quiet. "Yes, Master."

"…Or would you perhaps prefer to serve as Lord Vader's aide?"

His head rose at that. "No, Master."

"I have given you a task under my direct mandate, which puts you above even him, and I have done this for no other reason than your accomplishments at Toprawa. Do you now refuse it, because the Death Star offends your sensibilities?"

"No, Master, I only m—"

"You had best grow used to the influence that the Death Star's implementation has on the Force, child. It is not the only such project, you know that. Nor will I hesitate to use it in consideration of your susceptibility—or do you expect me to do just that?"

"No, Master."

Palpatine settled back, mollified, and the kid remained still beneath his study for an uncomfortably long time, the only remaining sound that of the Emperor's long fingernail tapping against the chair arm…

"Come here," he said at last, voice calm as he pointed to the dais at his feet.

Luke stepped instantly forward and came to rest with one knee on the edge of the dais where the Emperor had indicated, the other still on the ground, as if ready to flee a any time. Palpatine leaned forward to take the boy's chin in his hand, eye to eye now. "You are young, child. You are raw and untested and know so little." He paused, the barest allowance softening his gravelly tones, his voice barely audible to Han, still standing to the side of the hall. "There is reason in everything I do, remember that. Time spent onboard should be viewed as an opportunity to learn to shield yourself against its effects…there is no better way to learn to swim than in deep water. I will not have you hold a weakness, and I will not have you nurse petty reluctances like an infant—or do you think that Lord Vader would ever flinch from his duty, wherever I send him."

"That's of no value if he fails in it, Master, as he did with the _Tantive_."

The Emperor smiled, voice dropping lower at the heat of the accusation. "Do you want his head?"

Han saw the kid's back straighten as he lifted his chin, and Palpatine's smile broadened to show stained and wasted teeth as he moved his hand to cup the boy's cheek, voice dripping indulgent affection. "Then do as I tell you, and grow powerful. And remember always that your first and only loyalty is to me. There is no other—ever…say it."

The kid didn't even pause. "There's no other, Master. My loyalty will always be here."

The Emperor smiled munificently, pale hand still pressed to the kid's cheek. "What would you do at my command?"

"All that you ask."

Palpatine leaned forward. "If I asked you to sacrifice…would you?"

Luke moved uneasily. "Master?"

The old man leaned back, speaking a summons without looking from the kid. "Viscount Indo?"

Han watched as the Viscount set silently forward, bowing before he stepped up to the dais, and handed something to the Emperor. Han squinted from his place at the wall, trying to see what it was as Indo returned to stand beside him without meeting his eye.

The old man held out his hand, voice terse, giving nothing. "Take the blade."

Only now did Han recognize the kid's lightsaber hilt. Luke glanced down to take it, and the gaunt hand that had rested against his cheek slid subtly behind his neck. Palpatine didn't loose his hold on the hilt either, so that the kid's hand enclosed the hilt just below his…and Han felt his own unease begin to rise in the tightening of his chest.

The old man's words were a half-heard whisper as he glanced to the carved arm of his grand chair. "Put your other hand there."

Already half-knelt on the dais, Luke tensed just slightly—but brought his left hand up to rest it flat on the carved chair arm, fingers outstretched. Immediately, Palpatine pulled the hilt they both held across, to press its blade cowl against the back of the kid's hand, and Han felt his throat constrict as the old man leaned forward again, voice husky as he repeated, "If I asked you to sacrifice…would you?"

The kid tensed as the air left him. It was long seconds before he spoke, his words almost lost within a shallow breath. "…..Yes, Master."

A smile creased the lines of Palpatine's face as he leaned closer. "Do it…because I ask it."

Held by the hand which had threaded through the hair at the back of his head, Luke stared for long seconds at the unlit hilt pressed to the back of his hand… Then he braced, thumb sliding to rest against the activation toggle…

—and pursing his lips as he flinched, he pressed it.

The rasping thrum that Han anticipated didn't come. The blade didn't burst into being and pierce the kid's hand, though clearly he'd expected it to. He stared in dazed bewilderment, letting out a short gasp at the reprieve, chest rising and falling visibly in short, broken breaths.

And Palpatine smiled—smiled into the boy's breathless confusion as he pulled Luke's tensed head forward to place a brief kiss on his temple. "You are a good child," he murmured, as Luke stared without seeing, still coming back from the edge. "Take the saber."

The Emperor straightened to settle back onto his chair as Luke dropped back to rest on his heel, unable in that moment to do more. Slowly he pulled back the hand that the hilt had pressed against, flexing it as if to reassure himself that it was still intact.

Han too took the first breath in what seemed like an age, only now becoming aware that he was two steps from the wall with Indo's hand about his arm, holding him tight. When he'd made to move he didn't know.

The Emperor continued as if nothing had happened. "It is yours now, always. Stand up."

Still reeling, the kid pushed himself up and straightened, and Palpatine nodded, his tone approving. "I give you the right to carry this blade at all times, in my presence and beyond. Whenever you wield it, know that you do so at my command and to my advantage. Nothing else is justifiable."

Indo straightened proudly beside him as Han yanked his arm free, reminded once again of the limits of the _care_ that Indo afforded the kid. Had he known—had he known what the Emperor was going to do? Han didn't know which was worse—that Indo had known and said nothing, or that he'd been unaware, and would have let the kid light the blade.

Palpatine's eyes remained on Luke, tone taking on its familiar critical edge. "Know, however, that you remain less than I wish you to be. I have trained a Sith; a blue-eyed boy is of no use to me. You must move beyond the limits you so clearly hold. If you do not, then remember that I am more than willing to do the deed for you."

The kid's head tilted slightly as he almost glanced to Han, but he stopped himself and looked down, disquieted. He mumbled an uneasy acknowledgment, hand tightening about the hilt as the Emperor continued.

"Hold to these tenets, and all that I have taught you…and one day, when I think you are ready, I will give you the opportunity to face your rival. Now go." Palpatine leaned back, flicking a hand dismissively. "Go and do as I command, and take pleasure in knowing that the authority you carry with you into your next meeting with Vader could be yours permanently…at my mandate. I have given you a great honor, child…try to live up to it."

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Han turned to walk level with the kid as they left, passing through a hall now heaving with dignitaries and lackeys, their eyes turning to take in those who had favor enough to deserve a private audience with the Emperor himself. Luke, Han noticed, had dropped his arm to his side, holding his saber hilt upright and sliding it within his sleeve so that it was barely visible. Indo, he'd also noticed, had remained behind.

"You okay?" Han murmured.

"I'm fine." Luke answered without turning, tone perfectly level.

Having learned to be cautious, Han let them get a good thirty paces from the crowded outer hall before he spoke again. "He sure as hell wanted to make sure he had his claws in you before he handed over that lightsaber."

"He had every right to."

"Like that?"

Luke glanced once to the hilt in his hand, but said nothing. Seeing that he wasn't gonna get anywhere with that one, Han was left to grope for a safer subject. "Did he just promote you?"

Even if he wasn't about to denigrate Palpatine, then the kid was still willing to tell it like it was, voice dryly disparaging. "Please. He gave something with one hand which he just can't wait to take back with the other if I don't do this right. If I get it wrong he'll turn on me like a krayt dragon…and if I get it right, Vader will—and Tarkin."

"Tarkin?"

"I told you, Tarkin destroyed Despayre without consulting the Emperor."

Han blinked; that had been weeks ago. Seemed the old man liked to wait for his moment to pass out the knuckle raps. "You think he would have forbidden it?"

"No, not at all. But he didn't like not knowing what was going on. He sensed that moment just like I did, but he didn't have an explanation for it, and he doesn't like that. He doesn't like being in the dark about anything. This is just a timely reminder to Tarkin of that fact. Vader aside, I'm holding the Emperor's mandate and walking into a project that Tarkin's spent years developing for his own advancement. Palpatine's giving me sufficient authority that when I arrive it'll be, to all intents and purposes, to take it over—visibly—if only for a short time. Otherwise he wouldn't have granted the mandate. Whether I go in there quietly or not, it's still at the Emperor's behest, and the comm that's being sent to Tarkin right now will make that very clear, I promise you. How do you think Tarkin's going to take to that?" Luke half-turned as they walked down the long run of lofty corridors, footsteps echoing off hard granite floors. " 'Cos I'm guessing, not well."

"So he's putting you up against Tarkin?" Han said. "Why?"

"I just told you why. This is a public upbraiding for the Emperor's new Grand Moff. A clarification that his remit doesn't extend quite as far as making unilateral decisions to destroy planets without his Emperor's approval."

Which made sense, Han reflected. What better way to hack off a Grand Moff, than to send a kid to take over his position, if only for a few days. "It's gonna put a bit of a bone of contention between you and Tarkin."

"Immaterial," Luke said, lifting the saber that Palpatine had given him to stare at it, now that they'd left the crowds behind. "I do as I'm ordered, and as I've told you before, I'm not looking to make friends. And I'd've thought by now you'd know that Palpatine doesn't like his senior staff fraternizing—it makes for all kinds of unknown pacts."

"So he keeps playin' them against each other?" Han asked. The kid knew Palpatine too well. He nodded briefly to the hilt in Luke's hand. "What about that?"

"The lightsaber? This is for Vader."

" 'Cos Vader hacked him off in not retrieving the Death Star plans, and then not admitting to the fact," Han reasoned. "And because he wants to keep that contention going between Vader and you, right? Reward you when he punishes Vader, and he puts fuel on that fire."

"Welcome to the palace."

"You could just not wear it," Han said.

"I won't…visibly. No Hands wear them visibly. But I'll carry it, and Vader will know that. He'll know within the hour anyway, I'm sure."

Han straightened. "Ashtor."

"Ashtor," the kid acknowledged. "If he hasn't worked it out already, he will within minutes of our getting back."

"Why?"

Luke grinned, moving the unactivated saber hilt in a complex swing of twists and turns which looped it once around his body, swapping hands at the small of his back to bring it to a ready-position center front, horizontal and level with his shoulders, one hand about the hilt, the other used to stop it dead before it hit his body. "Because I'll tell him."

They walked on a way in silence, before Han turned again. "What was that stuff about…blue-eyed…" Han hesitated, not wanting to say 'boy,' knowing it had been levelled as barely more than an insult—that Palpatine had said it before, on the same terms.

The kid shrugged, studying the scratched and pitted lightsaber again. "A Sith's eyes change color…mine never have."

"To what?"

"Yellow, red. Amber, sometimes."

Han thought of the Emperor's pale ochre eyes, narrowed in malice. He couldn't imagine that of the kid—not even in his worst moments. "Always?"

"Always."

"And if they don't?"

"They do."

The kid fell to pensive silence, and Han remembered again the endless, obsessive drawings scrawled and scratched across the walls of his room. "What about if you don't want them to?" Luke glanced up quizzically, and Han shook his head, slowing to a halt. "You're not like him," he said, very sure.

"No?" Luke asked at last, face impassive.

"No."

The kid reached out, using the saber hilt to tap against Han's chest, touching exactly the spot where, in his inside pocket, Han still kept the sketch of Bria Tharen. "Tell her that."

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It was late by the time Indo returned to Luke's apartments with the promised commission to the rank of Commander. He'd expected to find Luke already gone—which he would normally have been annoyed at, but the day had gone too well to mar it now—and with Gorn and Solo's duty shifts long finished, only Ashtor on duty at this time of night.

Instead, as he walked through the darkened enfilade towards the Red Room, intending to leave the commission there, he noticed Luke sitting in one of the huge, little-used chairs, feet stretched out on a low polished pewter table before him, head back, eyes closed.

"Keep walking," Luke said without opening his eyes, but Indo had already slowed to a stop.

"Congratulations, Commander," he said, holding out the commission documents.

Luke opened one eye momentarily. "Thanks, just what I've always wanted…or is it just what you've always wanted?"

It was only now, as Indo's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, that he noticed the burned out stump of a spice stick in Luke's loose hand. He stepped forward and placed the commission on the low table at the boy's feet, before taking the spent stub from his hand. "I've asked you not to smoke these here."

"Where do you want me to smoke them?"

Indo straightened, letting the comment pass, noting too, the half-empty glass of water on the edge of the table as he sat, meaning that Ashtor had already brought Luke his nightly tablets, which explained his drowsiness now, if he'd taken them and then been smoking spice.

"When did you know?" Luke asked without opening his eyes.

"Know?"

"You already had my lightsaber when I came back into the Emperor's presence—you knew what he was going to do."

There was neither accusation nor betrayal in the flat statement, quietly spoken. But then one of the Emperor's earliest lessons to the boy had been that no one could be depended on to protect or shield him, and Indo saw no reason to soften an important truth with hollow pretense. Still, he had no desire to seem as if he'd withheld the facts, either. "I didn't know what the Emperor was going to do. I was simply commanded to bring your lightsaber."

"But you knew he'd taken the power cell out."

Indo paused fractionally. "No."

The boy glanced to him just for a second, then looked away without comment.

"Instead of sitting in the dark and stewing on the negative, you should look at all that you've gained today," Indo said briskly.

"A commission that'll put me in control of an installation that I don't even what to be onboard?"

It had been somewhat reassuring that the Corellian's advice to take the facts about Vader to the Emperor had at least partly failed; Indo knew of Luke's private dislike of the Death Star, even before its effect in the Force had quite literally knocked him from his feet, so to have the outcome of Solo's advice be that Luke was sent there had been an unexpected boon.

"You were granted the trust to administer the Emperor's will at the very highest level," Indo corrected. "An opportunity to prove yourself."

"I'll never prove myself with him. All I'll ever do is fail."

"That's not true. You should consider yourself fortunate that the Emperor considered your actions at Toprawa sufficient to offset the earlier incident with the insurrectionist."

"Odom?"

Indo shook his head. "I still have no idea what you were thinking…but then it wasn't you, was it?"

Luke glanced away. "He was just trying to help."

"Help you do what, Luke? Defy Palpatine? You could have faced serious repercussions, and you know it. If that's all Solo can _help _you with, then you'd do well to back away. If the Emperor finds out about the Rebel woman…"

Luke's head lifted, the threat in his voice undisguised. "He won't."

Indo sighed, looking down. He'd never be so foolish as to risk a rift between himself and the boy by directly revealing such a thing to the Emperor, but he also didn't want to see Luke lose favor by becoming entangled in Solo's misdemeanours, either. Not when he was finally gaining status. "Luke, you can't protect Solo forever—nor should you need to. He's becoming a danger to have close, and you'll pay the penalty as much as him, because the Emperor will know that you knew his past. He's already watching Solo."

Luke straightened in the chair. "Did you tell him? You told him about the Command Protocol…did you tell him about Solo and Tharen?"

"No, I didn't tell him. I told him about the Command Protocol because you made the right decision under pressure and you're entitled to have that acknowledged. Do you seriously think the Emperor would have tolerated Solo's presence here for one more minute if I'd told him about Tharen? His situation is precarious enough."

Luke lifted his chin, words laced with fire and determination. "I won't have my whole life controlled by Palpatine."

Indo stared, stunned at the words. Because as much as Luke had rebelled and defied and plain disobeyed over the years, it had always been against the rules—the abstract—never Palpatine himself. This was the first time ever that the boy had spoken out against him.

"Luke," he said gently, "you're talking about the Emperor—the Emperor himself. What you're saying places you in direct contention with him—is that really what you want?"

"No, but…" Luke trailed off, and Indo silently cursed Solo for making his role here even a fraction harder than it needed to be.

"Well then, what are you saying?"

"I don't know…nothing." He slumped back into the chair, uncertainty audible in his voice. "What if I'm not meant for this? Toprawa was…"

"It will get easier, Luke. I promise you that."

The boy looked down, a pensive frown darkening youthful features. "What if I don't want it to?"

Indo sighed, wondering whether the faces of Tharen and her comrades had already been added to the scratched and scribbled sketches on the walls of the boy's room. "Luke, this is a momentary thing…let it fade. Tomorrow…"

"Tomorrow we set off for the Death Star," Luke said tiredly.

"And in a week's time you'll be back, and you'll still have the commission of Commander, and you'll still be one of the dozen or so men entitled to carry a weapon in the presence of the Emperor himself." As he spoke, Indo reached out to take the lightsaber from where it rested on the table and hold it out…

Luke stared without taking it. "Why does he have to make everything so hard?"

"Because that's how we learn."

"No, that's how I learn, with him. That's how I've always learned with him."

"You're tired." Indo placed the saber down, and as he brought his hand back he almost—_almost_—patted the boy's leg in reassurance...then caught himself and instead tapped the table, straightening briskly. "Go to bed and rest."

"I'm sleeping here tonight."

Indo hesitated, about to argue the point, but after four years incarcerated in the vast empty Throne Room on Palpatine's command, the boy could sleep almost anywhere. And Indo knew that at times, among the faces he constantly drew and re-drew in the room where he slept, there were those same few who held far too much accusation in the dark of the night.

So he nodded, taking a few minutes to go to the bedroom and bring a blanket back to Luke, whose head had lolled to the side, eyes closed.

Indo straightened for a few moments to watch him, reflecting on the day. Even now it was easy, as it always was, to convince himself that everything was essentially fine, and this would pass.

Yes, he reflected, as he turned and left the rooms in silence, allowing his own reassurance to wash over the boy's words tonight; this was just a momentary aberration. A brief flare of doubt fed by tiredness and the guilt that Solo had somehow managed to instill—probably because the boy was susceptible to such anyway; the walls of the room he was so reluctant to retire to were proof of that.

It had always been a weakness which the Emperor had fed in some ways and sought to obliterate in others. Certainly any sense of guilt at executing an order from the Emperor—any order, no matter what it was—had been always dissuaded or dismissed. Guilt implied wrongdoing, and wrongdoing implied that a command given by the Emperor could be inappropriate or flawed, and as with everything else concerning the boy, Palpatine had always taken great care that his own commands and requirements stood above all else, including the boy's own sensibilities.

Did Luke resent it? Perhaps sometimes, just slightly, as any young man of his age would. But it was individual commands rather than their source; his loyalty to the Emperor was never in doubt. Palpatine had invested hugely in that whilst the boy was still young, and now, as he grew, it was so ingrained as to be absolute.

Certainly the Emperor had been jealously possessive in those early years, allowing no one else near the child. Any attempt to talk to or in any way acknowledge the boy had been ruthlessly dealt with, both the perpetrator and the boy himself being punished, the former often by expulsion from Court, the latter by far more direct means.

Within a year, it had become one of the basic rules which were quoted to any newcomer: _Never be late. Never question or contradict. Never make any contact with the child who will be near the Emperor. _

They were the most basic conventions of the Emperor's inner sanctum of Court, which all obeyed.

And it became easier not to see the child anyway. He expected no one to do so, and one could always assure one's self that it was in the boy's interest—he was only punished if one tried to help him.

So he had spiralled quietly down into his own bleak torment, becoming ever less responsive, ever more battered and gaunt, fed only occasionally, at the Emperor's whim.

Even Indo had ceased to see the bruises or to register when the boy disappeared for several days, knowing that he would be in the medi-center again; that he had somehow managed to incur Palpatine's fury one more time, and had paid the price. And anyway, Indo had his own concerns. His son had continued to excel, gaining a place at the prestigious J. Aubrey Academy, though Indo was sure that he could pull better yet from Dubrail, and continued to concentrate all of his attention and effort into ensuring that he did well, his future more secure than ever.

And the days had turned into months and the months had turned into years.

And slowly, very slowly, something in the child had changed. Now, any attention from strangers was rebuffed, everybody ignored but Palpatine. The boy remained close on his heel without a word from the Emperor, always listening for any order, alert for failure at every moment, knowing that still he would fail, but taking any punishment doled out without even a flinch any more.

And yet occasionally, for some inexplicable reason, the boy would still try to run. He was always locked into the Throne Room every night, whispered rumors among the guards attesting to the fact that he could be heard pacing just inside the locked doors like a caged animal, often for hours, so that occasionally when the silence was too great, they would open the tall double doors to find him gone, with no explanation as to how he had escaped.

Sometimes he would get quite a distance into the palace, sometimes not very far at all.

Always the outcome was the same. Retribution was swift and harsh and merciless. Such events incurred the most severe punishment of all, taking weeks, even months to recover from, in which time the boy remained weak and listless, though he never once sought anyone's help, and none was ever offered.

But no matter how harsh the punishment, sooner or later he would always try again. It was his only remaining defiance, and though he struggled violently when caught by guards, the moment he was in Palpatine's presence he would acquiesce, accepting whatever wildly vitriolic punishment Palpatine chose to deal out without ever pleading for or expecting any leniency.

And whatever Palpatine did, he eventually tried again.

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Time passed...and under Palpatine's intense attention, the boy was carefully reshaped in mind and soul, though nobody realized at first. By now, Palpatine's control of the boy was total. Wildly unpredictable with anybody else, he was instantly obedient in the Emperor's presence, the subtlest gesture controlling him, the slightest whisper or look summoning him instantly across the crowded Throne Room.

And like everyone else, Indo had convinced himself that the boy was best left well alone. He had his own goals and objectives in Court, and his son, his brilliant son, shone brighter every day, his future ensured as long as Indo remained silent and continued to hover at the edge of the Emperor's retinue.

He remembered the day, the moment, in perfect clarity, when he realized what Palpatine had created.

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It was a month before Luke's eleventh birthday, though Indo didn't know that at the time, of course. By that point, he doubted very much that the boy remembered either. A minor dignitary had been summoned to Palpatine's inner Court, always a bad sign, and this was no different. The man was a spy, passing information on to the Hutts, and had been caught.

There was no trial here anymore, no judge or jury. The Emperor was all these things, passing out sentences on the spot, the punishment always draconian.

The terrified man, whom Indo barely knew, had been dragged before the Emperor in binders to plea his case.

"Please, Majesty…I was only to…"

"How long?" Palpatine had ground out, voice low and accusing, as the Courtiers fell back in anticipation.

The man hadn't even hesitated. "Three times, Excellency, just…."

"You had the gall to remain in my palace, passing information to others on three separate occasions?" As he spoke the Emperor had slowly risen, stepping froward on the dais toward the petrified man, hands gradually rising.

"Please, Majesty…please..."

Palpatine had paused as a thought occurred, his face transforming from focused rage to something far colder and calmer. Amused, almost; pleased.

"Boy!"

The child had been there in an instant, limping quickly to his Master's side, his left arm held tight to his body.

Twelve days ago he had made yet another escape attempt, though these days he never seemed to go far, always being caught within the hour, often very close to the Throne Room as if, having escaped the vast, dour chamber which had become his whole life, he had no idea of what to do next.

This time Palpatine had lashed out with absolute frustrated fury. In every other way the silent boy was totally compliant, yet he still inexplicably did this, even knowing the consequences. Even now the boy was still almost unable to walk, his bruised face betraying the pain which no limp could ease.

He'd halted expectantly at the exact point which the Emperor had indicated, swaying slightly as he stood side on to the Emperor, eyes to the ground.

"Kill him," Palpatine had said simply, eyes never moving from the spy.

Without hesitation the boy made to move forward, but Palpatine had reached a grasping hand tight around the back of his neck, nails digging into flesh to hold him back. "Not like that. With the Force."

It had brought the boy's head around in momentary confusion, though he didn't speak.

Closer than most, standing almost side-on to the dais in the shadows of the vast room, Indo had heard the words which the Emperor made no move to hide, his voice casually dismissive.

"Crush his windpipe, break his neck, open the arteries in his brain. I don't care how—just kill him."

The boy had turned empty, emotionless eyes back to the bound man.

"Majesty, please…mercy?" he'd implored, backing up.

Palpatine only loosed a predatory smile as he rested pale hands on the boy's shoulders. "I'm afraid such a thing is no longer mine to grant."

The spy had realized immediately, turning his own attention to the child, bound hands held before him, palms out. "Please…have m—!"

His words were cut off as his head had jolted back. The sharp crack, muffled by tissue and skin, was still loud as a blaster shot in the expectant hush. The man had fallen to the ground instantly, deadweight, his final breath rattling from his lungs at the impact, shocked eyes wide and still.

It had happened so quickly that it took the fascinated crowd a moment to realize what had just taken place—and how.

A shared, shocked intake of breath went through the gathering as they'd hurriedly backed up further, all eyes on the corpse as the room fell into absolute, stunned silence.

The boy's hand remained outstretched, fingers splayed, as he stared at the corpse with empty eyes, no trace of remorse shadowing his battered face, no hint of compassion in those old eyes. But then why should there be, Indo had realized? In the Emperor's carefully controlled environment, the boy had been granted none by anyone in so very long that it was no longer a part of his vocabulary.

The child's bruised face had tensed into a momentary frown, but already the Emperor's hand on his shoulder was already guiding him away, to walk slowly to the back of the dais as guards rushed to remove the body, all eyes in the room finally turning to the child in stunned, silent realization as he was walked from view.

"Good, good," Palpatine had awarded, laughter in his quiet voice as he'd guided the limping child behind the throne with one gaunt hand to his shoulder, pushing him to the rear of the dais' gilded screens, and so beyond view of most of the room. From his vantage point at the very front and side of the huge Throne Room though, Indo could coincidentally see and hear the words quietly but harshly hissed once the boy was gone from general view. "But you were too slow. Far too slow."

Without warning Palpatine's hand had snapped from the boy's shoulder to the front of his neck, closing in a vicelike grip. The child's hand had moved instantly to rest over Palpatine's, though he'd made no effort to struggle or free himself, his pale, grazed hand tiny by comparison. He'd simply stared in silence as his Master leaned close.

"When I give you an order, you act without hesitation, do you understand?" The Emperor's voice was hard now, his eyes locked onto the child's.

Unable to draw in enough breath to speak the boy had nodded, mouth open as he struggled for air, though he kept his gaze on Palpatine.

The Emperor had continued to grip tightly against the boy's windpipe until his chest began to heave and his hand fell away, head rolling. Only then did he finally release him by pushing him into the wall, forcing the boy to catch his weight on his injured leg as he'd crumpled to the ground. An inarticulate sound had escaped him, half gasp, half moan, though he hadn't cried out, having learned long ago that the only result of such a weakness was to bring down further chastisement.

The Emperor had already turned and was walking away. As he'd reached the far side of the gilded screen in readiness to step out again, he'd paused, head turning just slightly as he pointed to his side.

It had taken the child several gasping breaths to gather himself together sufficiently to push up from the floor, but when he'd done so he set immediately toward his Master, back hunched against the pain, limp pronounced.

Palpatine had wheeled about, malevolent yellow eyes locking onto the child to freeze him where he stood.

"Stand straight!" he'd hissed. "You are Sith. Sith do not feel pain—they do not show weakness."

Without hesitation the boy had straightened, though the movement was jerky and obviously agonizing. He took four long, even steps to his Master, arms by his side, face pinched tight against the pain of doing so, his chest still heaving. But any trace of the limp had been removed by power of will alone.

Palpatine had turned without comment to walk back into view and settle into his throne, and slowly, Indo had become aware of the susurration of whispers which still travelled around the Emperor's inner circle with good reason. Like everyone else, he hadn't known that the boy was even Force-sensitive, let alone that Palpatine had been training him. Now, with hindsight, he realized what the Emperor had intended from that very first meeting. His endless harrying, his need to control the boy so completely which, like everyone else, Indo had assumed was more a private amusement than a premeditated path.

By now, Palpatine had long since let his own abilities be known. It wasn't common knowledge, of course, but here, in the halls of power, the term was whispered with nervous disquiet: Sith.

Indo was old enough to remember the ways of the Jedi, and everyone said that the Sith held to similar, if darker, traditions. And this Sith had wanted a new apprentice, it seemed. One who would be so completely conditioned to his Master's word being law that he would obey always, absolutely, and without question.

Aged only ten, the boy had walked to stand to the side of his Master's throne where Palpatine had indicated, his eyes low, his body motionless, waiting for the next command as the Emperor had turned to Pestage, clearly pleased with the way events had unfolded, not yet finished manipulating them for today. "Send the body back to the Hutts with my compliments. Do not tell them directly, but make sure they find out how this was done—and by whom. They will sell such information to those who have an interest, I have no doubt." He'd leaned back, tone expansive. "We should announce such an auspicious event as the accession of a new Sith…at least to those who need to see. The next move is theirs. "

The boy hadn't reacted at all to his Master placing him in the firing line when the vengeful Hutts found out the truth—or to the vaguer insinuation of greater, unknown threats. Didn't react to anything, his scarred face lowered, eyes fixed on the floor at the center of the room.

Following his gaze, Indo had noticed that it was fixed on a single spot of blood, all that was left of the act, glossy black in the low light of the Throne Room.

His intentions clearly fulfilled beyond even his expectations, the Emperor had departed, Court retiring. As ever, the boy had walked obediently behind him only to be told at the threshold to remain. His small body had slumped as the Emperor had disappeared from view, the weight lifted from his injured leg, his arm clutched awkwardly to himself again.

And as ever, the Courtiers had filed out around him as he'd stood motionless at the portal, gazing blankly at the tantalizing freedom just beyond.

But for the first time, nobody had jostled him; nobody had crowded or brushed him. For the first time he was given a respectful distance by the assembled Courtiers who filed warily around this unexpected new thing in their midst, a child with the power to kill by thought alone.

Indo had been one of the last to leave; why exactly he didn't know. But it had meant that as he slipped silently past the boy, they were momentarily alone.

"Indo… "

The word was whispered so quietly that Indo had been two paces past the boy before the shock of realization broke his stride. He'd turned just slightly back, not wishing to incriminate the boy with too obvious a reaction.

Luke had remained still, staring at the floor beyond the Throne Room, so that for a second Indo had wondered whether it had been his imagination… Then just for an instant, he'd lifted his battered face up to Indo, eyes bewildered and desperate…

The moment was broken as a guard passed between them, and the boy had turned slowly away to limp back towards the dais, disappearing into the shadows as the lights were dimmed and the huge, heavy doors locked down for the night.

Indo had remained still for several seconds, shaken by the intensity of it.

He'd remembered—the boy had remembered who Indo was.

Palpatine hadn't taken his past from him completely, no matter how the boy reacted when his Master was in the room. Somehow, he had kept some part of himself, some spark of self-identity, some memory of individuality. How, against the manipulative abilities of the Emperor, Indo couldn't imagine.

And he had done this alone.

A child, abandoned and isolated, trapped in the most hostile environment imaginable with no hope of reprieve or escape, and not even the strength yet to defend himself. But the slight, malnourished, mistreated boy _was_ surviving, and doing so by strength of will alone.

Until today, Indo had realized…when all previous rules and boundaries had been irrevocably changed.

Young as he was, the boy was hardly naïve. He knew that this was now the end game, his last chance to retain some part of himself protected from the reality of his life slipping away.

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Indo had turned mechanically, and walked without seeing down the long, austere halls, the immense slabs of stark stone which lined the dim, cavernous spaces closing in about him. Eventually he had slowed to a halt, the weight of regret settling heavy in his stomach.

It was, he knew, quite impossible to help the child.

He had been too long in the Emperor's hands. No matter how reluctantly, he had clearly learned his lessons well. They had been beaten into him with calculating, devastating effect.

Not realizing the relevance of his own actions, today the boy had done as he had been so casually instructed by his Master, something he had seen—perhaps sensed—his Master do without compassion or remorse many times. One more order in a life where defiance or even questions were severely punished, and refusal was simply not an option. Following what he had perceived in his damaged state to be just one more command, hardly different from any other, the boy had unwittingly sealed his own fate. Today, though still a child, he had proved himself capable not only of calling the Force to him, which Palpatine had clearly been teaching him for some time, but powerful and attuned enough to focus it on a single, deadly act, already capable of the fine precision necessary to kill cleanly.

And just as importantly, willing to do this on command, all conscience or ethics carefully stripped away in this ruthlessly controlled environment.

Slowly Indo had begun to walk again, the guilt easing a little as he had followed his thoughts to their logical conclusion. The boy was so damaged that he probably wasn't even truly aware that he had done anything wrong. He was Sith, raised by his own kind. He could have no other future. Better he accept his fate and bow to the Emperor's will, as everyone did here. In fact, for Indo to offer any hope of reprieve would be grossly unfair—a cruelty in itself.

He'd heard the rationalization and hated himself for it, but what could he do? What could anybody do, now that the boy had proved himself of such value? By killing on command, he had locked himself into his fate and bound himself irrevocably to the Emperor…and in doing so, placed himself beyond anyone's help.

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To be continued...


	16. Chapter 16

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**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

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Vader walked from the detention cell into the bright corridor beyond, forced to stoop low to step beneath the opening door. Behind him, the Rebel pilot Darklighter was dragged without resisting between two stormtroopers, his gait staggered and weak, his trepidation blasting out through the Force, a shrill, chaotic whirlwind that jumped from fear to fear as he futilely tried to brace himself for the unknown. Vader ignored it, thoughts on his own frustrations.

The pilot knew nothing. He had no location, no knowledge of where he had been heading. Jump co-ordinates had been stored only in his old astromech unit's memory, but the droid had purged the details as soon as the X-wing had been caught in a tractor beam, the techs had reported. They were trying to reassemble the fragments, of course, but the droid had full minutes to fragment and destroy the details beyond retrieval.

What they _had_ found intact, had been the stolen plans to the Death Star. And since they already knew from the impounded Tantive's data banks that it held only one copy of the plans, then at least this part of the mission had been secured. Vader finally had the plans that he had all but assured the Emperor that he'd already retrieved almost a week prior.

Ignoring the nervous guards who snapped to smart attention at the exit from the detention level, he entered the turbolift with his charge, heading for the main command levels of the Death Star and stewing the whole distance that it had been information given to him by Kenobi's son which had saved his neck in gaining the location of the X-wing, as soon as it had emerged from hyperspace. At least the boy would never know.

Travelling onboard the _Devastator_ to the Death Star, Vader had ordered the unit which had retrieved the Rebel X-wing to rendezvous with the Death Star as soon as he'd had word that the 501st had tracked down one of the small ships that had managed to escape the Tantive. He'd sent small units along every possible trajectory for their last known routes, and it had been pure fluke that the ship that Kenobi's son had planted with a homing beacon, had been the one carrying the plans.

It was there, however, that their luck had run out. Now, after his third interrogation session, the Rebel pilot had been stripped of what little he knew and Vader had no further interest in him. Tarkin had already voiced an opinion that he could perhaps pull more from the Rebel, and Vader had agreed to let him try out of dry disinterest and the desire to see Tarkin fail. He hadn't bothered asking how, because he didn't care; he already knew that Darklighter knew nothing of value.

So after a day's travel Vader had brought the prisoner back up to the command level on Tarkin's request while they were still in hyperspace, the twisting swirls of sluggish light throwing an actinic glare across the spartan room as he thrust Darklighter out of the turbolift. The Rebel staggered a few steps then caught himself, straightening as Grand Moff Tarkin turned, his gaunt face framing small, shadowed eyes that looked altogether too fervent.

The Rebel shrugged his shoulders to pull his battered orange flight suit straight where it had been wrenched awry by the troopers who now positioned themselves to either side of the turbolift door. After having been reduced to desperate, drained silence in Vader's presence, the young man seemed to find his voice again at the sight of the Emperor's favored campaigner.

"Well, well, Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin…I bet you don't remember me."

Tarkin tilted his head to glance up as Vader drew close behind the pilot, intimidating with his presence, then turned those ice-cool eyes back on the Rebel. "Should I?"

"No," Darklighter laughed lightly, no more than a broken breath. "Not at all, I'm just small fry. But I remember you… You were doing a tour of the Sector Naval Academies—gracing those of us in the Outer Territories with your presence—and you delivered a speech at Prefsbelt Fleet Camp, while I was there. I remember it exactly, 'cos I thought you were the coldest son of a nek I'd ever seen, even then, espousing the importance of power and military might. In fact I think you were one of my inspirations…to join the Alliance."

"Indeed?" Tarkin looked the battered man up and down. "And what a triumph that has been."

"As a matter of fact it has—this last mission notwithstanding."

Tarkin leaned forward, his impeccable uniform barely creasing. "Ah but you see, we are all of us judged only on our latest deed."

"Really?" The Rebel straightened, his back pressing against Vader's crossed arms, so close was Vader stood. "Well then you're about to have a colossal disappointment."

"I think not. This station will become the ultimate power, the perfect display of the Empire's supremacy and resolve. No one will dare oppose the Emperor now."

As Tarkin spoke, Vader felt the momentary shudder and lurch as the Death Star exited hyperspace and the light visible through the viewport shrank and condensed to pinpricks of distant stars…and two very close ones, their combined flare lighting the command center and sending a skittering trail of unease up Vader's spine. He stared as the rotation of the Death Star slowly brought a planet into view, its sandy surface seared gold and red by the power of binary suns.

Voices continued, but they were distant and indistinct, all of Vader's attention taken by that dusty planet. A thousand memories scorched him: of dry, open plains; of a woman whose hands were rough from work…of sandmen in tattered rags. Of burning fury and desperate loss…of a grave with a simple marker.

He blinked, jerking his head away and back to the moment. His heart pounded though, chest constricting, thoughts in turmoil. Tarkin's voice, incisive as ever, filtered through Vader's foreboding.

"In a way, you have determined the choice of planet that will be destroyed on our inaugural flight. Since you're reluctant to provide us with the location of your Rebel base, I have chosen to test the destructive power of this station on your home planet of Tatooine."

Only now did Vader register the recognition in the Rebel's own mind. Only now did he remember the man's past, as he sensed the flurry of desperate fears that burst out of him.

"Wait, Tatooine's just…it's a farming planet—we have no weapons, no affiliations, it's nothing!"

"Except to you," Tarkin said shrewdly, a self-congratulatory smile touching his lips for just a second before his face hardened again. "You would prefer another target? A military target? Then name the system."

Vader's eyes were pulled again to the dusty planet, baked beneath twin suns. For an instant a woman's rough working hands, tanned by years beneath binary suns, cupped his face in a memory so intense as to leave him breathless, reeling at the power of it…

Tarkin's voice sliced through, sharp and callous. "This will be the only time that I will ask…where is the Rebel base?"

From the comm at the nearby console, an anonymous voice cut in. "Calculations are complete, sir. All systems are charged to capacity."

Darklighter's head turned back to the viewscreen as it overlayed with computations and diagrids, all centering on the distant orb of Tatooine…and he let out a gasp, desperate and frantic and panic-stricken.

Tarkin turned away, taking a breath—

"Syvris," the Rebel blurted, bound hands rising. When Tarkin turned, he lowered his head, voice a broken gasp. "They're on Syvris."

Tarkin straightened, pleased. "There. You see, Lord Vader, he can be reasonable." He turned to nod to Admiral Motti, who stood attentively nearby. "Continue with the operation. You may fire when ready."

Darklighter glanced up, his alarm merging with Vader's own. "What!"

"You're far too trusting," Tarkin said smoothly. "But don't worry—we'll deal with your Rebel friends soon enough."

A rush of officious chatter sounded over the comm, calm and neutral, no hint of the nature of their task.

"Target acquired… Input sequence accepted."

"Loading parameters."

"Model conforms to parameters…mass and volume factored in."

"We have confirmation. All systems go."

"Commence primary firing sequence. Countdown from ten…"

Vader's eyes snapped to the dry, dusty planet which hung in the endless void, small and vulnerable from this distance. Stared at a past he'd spent decades trying to purge…and so why did he feel like his chest was constricting and exploding in the same instant? His breath stilled, emotions whipping at him which could have been his own or could have been loosed by the fraught prisoner before him, at least allowed to register the magnitude of what was happening.

"Nine…eight…"

He was going to do it—Tarkin was going to destroy Tatooine…and Vader was going to let him.

"Seven…six…"

"No, Sith no, please," the man groaned, "please—"

Moments, memories...they rose about Vader like sand in a whipwind. He remembered the desert grit in his mouth as he'd buried her; remembered cursing in the heat of the suns when the sides of the grave had collapsed as he'd tried to dig. Remembered Owen Lars coming out without speaking to pour precious water into the sand, to shore it and hold it firm. Remembered the marker with her name on it—the last time he'd ever written or spoken it.

"Five…four…

Remembered that gentle, lilting voice, soft and warm and utterly benevolent. _"What does your heart tell you?"_

"Three…"

"Stop!" Had that been him? Vader's voice came from somewhere deep within, spoken with no memory of forming it.

Tarkin turned, surprised, then immediately glanced to Motti, nodding sharply. Motti reached out to engage the failsafe from his console, slapping the switch to abort the sequence. The thrum of the power regulators ceased and the bone-deep knowledge of their purpose, which had ground up Vader's spine like the clawing hand of death itself, dispersed into the ether, leaving him cold and clammy, aware of too many eyes on him.

Darklighter babbled baffled, broken thanks as he breathed again, shoulders falling lax, and Vader stared at him, sickened by the man's weakness, appalled at his own. At his inability to change it, even now. He turned to Tarkin, finding his voice again.

"This planet is of…strategic relevance. The man knows nothing."

"Then Syvris?"

"Set your course as you see fit." Vader wanted to be gone. To be away from this whole sickening incident and never have to think on it again.

He took the unresisting Rebel by the shoulder and wheeled him about, pushing him forward. The turbolift doors opened and Vader stepped quickly inside, not turning as the two troopers entered to take the prisoner's arms as he almost collapsed into them, hyperventilating, still struggling to regain control.

"Take him back to his cell," Vader growled, setting the turbolift to open at the next available level, desperate to be away from this man whose feelings mirrored and magnified his own.

He stepped blindly from the turbolift when it opened to a deserted corridor, feeling the desperate tangled mass of fear and relief which the prisoner embodied fade as the turbolift moved away…and then he was alone, and the silence was a balm. He breathed deep, closing his eyes and seeing her face again, memories still sharp of his younger self, churning with guilt as he'd held her rag-wrapped body, voice broken by helpless fury: _"I couldn't save her!"_

When she'd needed him, he couldn't save his own mother. All his power had counted for nothing, just as it had with Padmé. That was the truth; he'd failed, and all that he'd loved had died, without hope. If he could have that chance again, just once…

But the fates had taken everything and there was no possibility of reprieve. He was alone, with the memories and regrets which shredded his soul and left him forever raw and aggrieved; wounds that could not heal.

About him, the Death Star shuddered as it accelerated beyond the speed of light, and in an instant the ghost of Tatooine was gone from his awareness. But there remained a void within, where all that it meant resided, and that could not be outrun. It could not be filled or sated…but it could be ignored, he knew, from long experience.

He straightened, pushing the day's events down within as he pursed scarred lips; it could be ignored. He'd done so for two decades. It never became easier, but it became a familiar ache, and he nursed it like a child.

He paused for just a second at that last thought, memories twisting with familiar censure to Padmé, flowers in her hair, hands resting over the swell of her stomach, her eyes closed as if in sleep…only not. Grief and guilt ripped through him with the power, even now, to take his breath away. A hollow at the very pit of his soul that he'd filled for years with self-condemnation, with loathing, with revulsion, with bitter contempt—and the more he'd poured in, the deeper it became. He'd become a master at this, if nothing else.…

Bracing himself, he straightened his massive frame and stalked down the empty corridor, alone.

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There was something going on here, Han suspected, as he stood in his cabin onboard the ISD _Vendetta_; something new. They were less than an hour onboard the Destroyer, and Han hadn't missed the fact that Indo wasn't on his back nearly as much. He'd even given Han some shifts on his own with the kid, rather than trying hard to ensure he was only ever in the background. Just offered them off his own back in the upcoming travel rota, without any prompting. It wasn't like they'd become bosom buddies or anything, but the Viscount had definitely given him a bit more space—in fact, he seemed to have made his peace with Han's presence, making no new moves to undermine him or edge him out…weird. Very weird.

Han dropped his bag in his assigned quarters, placed Dewlanna's holo on the shelf, and made his way to the kid's rooms almost immediately, to find Luke already taking the first ten pages from the regulation-supply sheaf of flimsiplast and placing them out of sight in the spotless, impersonal room, prior to Indo's inevitable arrival.

Han glanced round, figuring the kid would have already completed one other task before Indo arrived. "So where do you keep your stash hidden here?"

Luke smiled as he returned to the big standard military-issue holdall laid open on his bed. "Tell you what, if you can find it, you can take it off me."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely."

Han glanced around. Cupboards were obviously out. And drawers. He looked briefly to the bed. "Do I get a clue?"

"You only get one—you want it now?"

"Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

The kid reached into the bag that was still on his bed to pull out a small silver box, then turned to slap it down on the customary metal-topped table. "I haven't hidden it yet."

Han straightened. "That's not a clue."

"I asked you twice if you were sure."

Han rested a finger on the box as the kid turned back to his unpacking. "I got a good one for you…why don't you go without on this trip?"

"Because?"

Han shrugged. "Prove you can."

Luke glanced back. "Because?"

"C'mon, you don't need this stuff."

"That's right, because this is a completely stress-free journey. Maybe Tarkin will welcome me with open arms. Maybe he'll muss my hair and say, 'Sonny, I've been trying to offload this project for twelve years. Take the driving seat, with pleasure. In fact, here, take the jacket off my back. You deserve it.' And I hear Vader's quite the nurturing type when you get underneath his obsessive need to intimidate people and kill things."

Han sat on the chair. "So what is it with you and Vader?"

"Aside from his glaringly obvious need to intimidate people and kill things?"

"They seem to reach new heights around you."

The kid shrugged without looking. "I probably don't exactly go out of my way to smooth things over."

"No kidding, that's so unlike you," Han deadpanned. "What was Indo talking about, when he said you and Vader had a run-in last year?"

"It was actually the year before," Luke said. "I know, because it was when I got my own apartment—that was what I got it for."

"What was?"

"I'd been sent off to do some Special Forces bootcamp, and when I came back Vader was in the palace. I was pretty clean from having been away, 'cos you don't get a minute to yourself in those places and…well, trying to pick things from Vader's head without him knowing is kinda a hobby of mine, so…"

"Really? I can't imagine why the guy dislikes you," Han interjected.

"So," Luke repeated, "Vader was probably going crazy about something…wait, no, it was a lightsaber training session and I'd done something he hadn't expected—something he can't do because he's just too bulky—and he paused; he actually paused, and I _knew_ it was because he wanted to remember it…but it couldn't be for himself, so he was thinking about someone else—someone else he wanted to teach that move to." Luke turned, stopping his unpacking to continue. "It was just…it was an itch in the back of my head every time I looked at him after that, you know? _Something_ was going on. I pulled every unscheduled trip the _Devastator_ had made in the last four years, looked at every unaccompanied journey he'd made…nothing. Pulled his comm entries…such as they are. Nothing. Couldn't figure it out. It was driving me insane. So I made a point of unpicking Vader's head over the next four or five days. I became his new shadow; everywhere he went in the palace, I was there, just quietly waiting for those fractional slips, adding them all up, looking for something—anything." Luke tilted his head. "Turned out Vader was secretly training an apprentice, named Marek. He was about my own age, the son of a Jedi… I found out what I could and took it to the Emperor—against Indo's advice."

Han straightened in the chair, amazed at the kid's guts for implicating Vader, and Luke shrugged, voice dryly sardonic but completely unrepentant.

"That was a bit of a low point in our relationship, I have to admit. It was about two weeks after it had all come out, which was our next lightsaber training session, that we put each other in the medicenter. That was when Palpatine stopped us training altogether. So really, it was an all-round win for me."

"What happened to the other kid?"

"Marek—Galen Marek." Luke paused a fraction of a second, then seemed to catch himself and shrugged, a study of casual indifference. "I killed him."

"…You killed him?"

"On Palpatine's order. He had Vader bring Marek to Coruscant, saying he'd test him," the kid said offhandedly, "which I guess he did."

"Why did you kill him?"

"Because Palpatine told me to."

Kid said it as if that were reason enough—but then he'd been told his whole life that it was, Han knew. He wanted to ask about Bria Tharen, about the Red Hand Squadron whose names Luke had learned…about the way he'd paused and made himself remember the other kid's name just now. Instead he glanced down awkwardly.

"What happened?"

"We duelled," Luke said flatly. When Han remained silent, he finally gave up a little more. "He was actually pretty good—in fact he was very good; as good as me, probably." He shrugged, carefully nonchalant. "I was just better on the day. It came down to more of a Force duel in the end though, which was a bad move on his part. Don't get me wrong, he was still very good—I'm surprised the Emperor didn't want to train him as a Hand. But then maybe not—Palpatine had a point to make with Vader, and anyway, Marek would always have had split loyalties and Palpatine wouldn't tolerate that. He wanted him gone."

"But he wanted you to do it?"

"I'd brought the problem to him," Luke said simply. "It was my job to clean it up. I told you, Hands follow a job through to the finish."

"How did you…"

"Kill him? He made a mistake before I did—it was that simple. He backstepped in anticipation of a high blow that I turned mid-swing into a side blow, so his block was out by a half-second, which gave me that fraction of deviation I needed to slice through the emitter of his lightsaber hilt. Without a weapon, for some reason he thought it would be a good move to try to throw me around using the Force."

"And?"

Again Luke shrugged. "I crushed his skull. Instantly. Throwing people around is for when you're annoyed; this was a middle of a duel, and the point of a duel is to kill your opponent as quickly as possible, before they kill you."

"He was unarmed."

"He was still trying to kill me."

"Maybe he was defending himself."

"It was a duel between Sith. We defend ourselves by killing our opponent."

"You weren't Sith, you were…" Han broke off, but Luke raised his eyebrows knowingly.

"Kids? We were neither of us that. Believe me, he intended to kill me as much as I intended to remove him, and a Sith without a lightsaber isn't exactly helpless."

"So you killed him, on command…with the Force?" Han broke off as a thought occurred. "You hadn't been smoking spice, then."

"I can generally pretty much clean spice out of my system in a few minutes, if I have to. I'd have to have taken a lot to not be able to do that. And like I said, I was only five days back from the boot camp, and hadn't started in on the spice that much, so I was pretty clean…which was just as well."

"If you hadn't been…would Palpatine have protected you?" Surely the kid had considered this.

Luke glanced away. "I doubt it." He looked back and grinned, refusing to be made to think about it. "You'd probably have been speaking to Galen Marek right now, instead of me…think how much easier your life would have been!"

"I'm serious."

"So am I. In fact, you would have been out of the military entirely by now."

"With no prospects, no references and a dishonourable discharge. Yeah, I would've been hauling garbage scows in the Outer Rim."

"No, not you." The kid grinned, returning to his unpacking. "But you would have been flying—you'd have found a way."

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Biggs was laid on his back, head swimming, wondering how a kid from Tatooine had ended up so far from home in so many ways. Home…his heart skipped a beat in empathy with memories too fresh to dismiss; that Tarkin would have done it. Would have destroyed an entire planet, just to get under Biggs' skin. To force him to start giving answers that they knew damn well he didn't have. Vader had made sure of that. Something within him twitched at the memory of those interrogations—of another consciousness inside his thoughts ripping them open and…he sat up suddenly, blinking it away, shaking his head, for all the good it would…

The door to his cell slid open and Biggs braced, wondering what they had in store for him this time. A single stormtrooper walked in and stopped, breathing heavily.

And despite everything, Biggs couldn't help but look the guy up and down and say it: "Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?"

The stormtrooper stood silent for a long moment, in which Biggs silently cursed his own big mouth… Then the trooper reached up and pulled his helmet off—

and a spill of shoulder-length mahogany hair fell about Leia's face as she tilted her head and grinned. "Leia Skywalker to the rescue…again."

"Leia!" Biggs straightened, wincing at the shock of complaint his bruised and beaten body made.

"What the hell is it with you, Biggs Darklighter, that I seem to be making something of a profession of hauling your sorry ass out of trouble?"

He stared, still reeling, trying to pull the surreal scene into some kind of sense—and just one thing kept swimming to the fore: "You got through the Death Star dressed like that?"

"Chewie's with me. He kinda helps throw the whole scale thing out—everyone looks small next to a Wookiee. Plus if there's a stormtrooper and a Wookiee walking down a corridor, which one are you gonna be looking at?"

Chewie chose that moment to duck under the door, a stolen stormtrooper's blaster rifle over his shoulder and another in his meaty hands as he let out a protracted howl. Biggs didn't need to understand a whole lot of Shyriiwook to know a 'Let's get out of here' when he heard one.

Chewie threw the blaster to Biggs, and he caught it awkwardly, still struggling at the turn of events. Leia was already turning about. "C'mon, we need to get moving. Obi-Wan's with me."

"Obi-Wan—where is he?"

"He's deactivating the tractor beams so we can get out of here cleanly."

Biggs was at the door when he stopped. "Wait! We need to make a stop-off first."

"You're kidding me—this'd better be good, Darklighter."

"I think I know where Artoo is."

"Artoo…" Leia squared her jaw, and slight as she was, Biggs couldn't think of a damn thing in the whole galaxy that would stop her. "Where?"

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Vader stood in the command conference chamber to the rear of the sprawling main bridge onboard the Death Star, a wide sweep of starry space visible through the angled viewscreens to one side of the darkened hall. Somewhere out there, the Rebel Alliance huddled in hiding, and all of this might and machinery was nothing, without a target. Tarkin was posturing and seething, his frustration rolling out of him in dense waves, but without that one location, twelve long years of work to build this behemoth meant nothing, and he was as toothless as a pittin. Vader had long since stopped listening, staring instead out into the still darkness, aware of the silent susurration within the Force which had sounded for hours now.

_Something…_

He glanced again to Tarkin, tempted to tell the man to be quiet, or to simply walk from the room to have some peace. Despite their continued cooperation Vader felt neither like nor loathing for the man. Their paths had crossed many times in the Clone Wars and the early years of the fledgling Empire, but it was an alliance of convenience, nothing more, and with Tarkin's increasing confidence at the completion of his much-vaunted Death Star, Vader's tolerance of the man was thinning—as, he suspected, was the Grand Moff's patience with him.

The comm set into the dark-polished table sounded a polite chime, and Tarkin answered only to have the speaker ask for Vader. He walked quickly forward, sensing that tiny fractious tingle gain momentum. "Yes?"

"Sir, this is Sergeant Flint from the 501st." The trooper paused, as if uncertain how to continue. "We're…we've just had a sighting flagged, which matches the description of one of the scoutships seen leaving the _Tantive_."

"Good work, Sergeant, where is it?"

"It's…sir, it's in the secondary tech bay onboard the Death Star. It's listed by the docking officer as having full credentials, but if it has, they've not been logged into the system."

Vader let a slow smile pull at old scars as the distant cord that thrummed within his awareness came clear at last. "Well done, Sergeant. Put a guard in the hangar, but don't force entry."

Flicking the comm closed, Vader straightened, absolutely sure. "_He_ is here."

Tarkin frowned. "He?"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi."

The name alone was enough to gain the Grand Moff's total attention as his narrow features hardened. "What makes you think so?"

"A tremor in the Force. The last time I felt it was on Coruscant, when Kenobi tried to take back his son." He'd been so close, then—so close to Kenobi in the running firefight, without ever getting close enough to draw his blade.

The comlink on Tarkin's desk buzzed again for attention, and he broke off to answer it, voice clipped with annoyance. "Yes?"

"Sir, we have an emergency alert in detention block AA-twenty-three."

"The pilot? Put all sections on alert."

Vader breathed deep, feeling the tremor of anticipation whisper through him; this time, there would be no escape for the old man. This time, they finished it.

Tarkin closed the comm, his hooded eyes lifting to Vader. "If you're right, he must not be allowed to escape."

"Escape may not be his plan," Vader said grimly. "I must face him—alone."

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Obi-Wan moved quickly and quietly down the deserted corridor, heading for the cargo bay that they'd put the shuttle down in, frustrated that he couldn't risk reaching out to Leia to make sure that her own mission had gone off with equal success. Somehow he doubted it; the general awareness of those nearby seemed to have raised a notch or two, and…

He slowed, his hand going automatically to his saber hilt.

_So close… _He could see the bay, could see the shuttle, closed up and dark…but it may as well have been on another planet.

Knowing that Obi-Wan had detected him, Vader stepped from the side corridor with a heavy hiss of automated breathing. He took his time to walk forward, slowing to position himself in the center of the corridor, an immovable force between Obi-Wan and the docking bay.

"I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan. We meet again, at last—the circle is now complete."

Oh, but he was so different. So dark. A twisted knot of simmering fury, flint-hard and seething, raging in a storm of his own making. Obi-Wan felt a surge of pity for the man he'd known so well—and not at all, it seemed, from all that had since happened.

There was the curl of a snarl in Vader's words, hurled with cold surety. "When I left you I was but the learner; now I am the master.

"Only a master of evil, Darth."

Vader straightened, and the thick, quilted hide he wore creaked as it moved. He'd always been tall, clearly destined to be a big man, but Palpatine had reshaped his monster into a towering creature, at once menacingly macabre and pitiably broken.

His bass voice reverberated in Obi-Wan's chest as he spoke, a guttural growl of menace. "Were you intending to slink away, as you did at the palace on Coruscant?"

Obi-Wan felt an instant churn of guilt at his failure nine years ago, but held his center. "You should have let me take him."

"And why would I give to you what you took from me?"

The anger, the outrage in Vader's voice was shocking—but then Obi-Wan had indeed taken the boy, after Padmé's death. "I only wanted to give him a chance—give him a choice. Would you deny Luke that?"

"I'd deny him life itself if I could."

Obi-Wan stared, appalled that Vader would speak of his own son this way. If Vader realized, it only pushed him on.

"Palpatine won't protect him forever, and the day the boy stands alone is the day that I will take him to pieces, as you did me, Obi-Wan, and leave him to a slow, agonizing death."

"I don't believe even you could do that."

"You took everything from me," Vader rasped. "I deserve retribution!"

"And how is it that? You think Padmé would…"

"Don't speak her name!" Vader yelled. "You killed her, with your lies!"

Obi-Wan only shook his head slowly. "No, you killed her, Vader. You drove her away. She and the child you—"

Vader launched forward with a howl of inarticulate outrage, lighting his saber as he came, forcing Obi-Wan to do the same.

The first blow landed like fury incarnate, sending a shock up Obi-Wan's arms as he parried. The second drove him back further, its power incredible. But power wasn't everything; on the third blow Obi-Wan caught the scarlet blade, whipping his own about it to gain the upper hand and force Vader to disengage.

"You killed them both," Vader growled in a low hiss, the accusation raw and fiery. "You took everything from me."

"I…" Obi-Wan hesitated, struggling to understand, his concentration split between an ever-more inattentive defence and escalating confusion. "Vader, your son…" He broke off, realization lighting within him; he didn't know! Vader didn't know that Luke was his son! Was the boy oblivious too? The ultimate hold that Obi-Wan had always assumed that Vader and therefore Palpatine had on Luke was…what? Nothing. Not a fraction of what he'd feared.

His mind raced to piece the remaining fragments of the puzzle together; how could Vader not know? He knew the boy was Force-sensitive, did he think him some random… Palpatine! Palpatine had found the boy, not Vader! Vader had been systems away in the Mid-Rim when the murder of Bail and Breha Organa had happened. Palpatine had never told him; never admitted the truth!

In a flush of hope Obi-Wan felt his own soul lighten, a burden lifted; they didn't know, and if the boy didn't know… But it had surely been too long, the boy couldn't be saved—could he?

He glanced to the entrance of the bay, fired with a new need; if he could somehow speak to Luke, there may be a chance, a slim chance…

Then he sensed Leia's presence as she closed, a flare of bright light in this soulless place, and he wrapped the Force about it to dim it from Vader's awareness. But the momentary hope that had kindled and flared died with the realization that in moments, she'd be here…and he couldn't take the risk. Couldn't have Vader find her.

He'd never have that chance, to try at least to save the boy. To perhaps one day tell Leia of the brother she didn't know existed. Because his loyalty—his protection—had to remain with her; with the woman he'd watched grow from childhood. If only he could have told her. Now, he felt he was watching her one chance at reconciliation with her brother slip away, because he saw only one course left to him if he were to protect Leia today—to buy her the chance to escape.

He had to force Leia's hand. If she saw Obi-Wan here, trapped, she'd come after him. She'd never leave him, he knew—not if he was alive.

Seeing his eyes flick away, Vader moved a step to more fully block his way, the tip of his saber never dropping. "Your powers are weak, old man. You should not have come."

In the bay, the troopers about the scoutship had noticed the flash of lightsabers and were now moving forward as a group to block Obi-Wan's escape further…and in doing so, leaving the path to the scoutship undefended for Leia.

Obi-Wan smiled beneficently at his old padawan. "You can't win, Darth. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

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Leia pulled to a halt at the final turn before the hangar, sensing too many minds within. Turning to flag Biggs and Chewie behind her to a silent stop, she was almost pushed forward anyway by Artoo, who rolled full-tilt into her from behind. Nudging him back and hushing his complaints with her hand, she leaned around the corner.

Milling about the hangar were maybe a dozen stormtroopers, their minds wary as they stared at the shuttle. She swung back, silently cursing the fact that she'd abandoned her troopers' uniform, which might at least have bought her a second's more anonymity to get close to them without suspicion.

Biggs skittered to a halt, trying hard to silence his labored breath, one hand holding his blaster, the other wrapped about his ribs. "What?"

"Stormtroopers—twelve or so."

Biggs leaned forward a fraction to peer around the corner. "Damnit, don't these guys have something useful to do?"

"We could backtrack," Leia whispered. "Though they've probably almost got that blast door open by now."

They'd managed to cut off their burgeoning pursuers when Chewie had had the good sense to stop and hammer the close panel on one of the heavy blast doors in the corridor leading to the hangar, barking at Artoo, who had spun about and scooted back to extend a linkage arm and lock the panel out of the system, fritzing its controls with a brief flash of sparks. But it hadn't bought them more than a few minutes, and they knew it.

Leia handed her blaster to Biggs and took her lightsaber from her belt. "We're going to have to go for it. Stay behind me, I can deflect their shots. You get to the ship, get the engines online, and…"

She hesitated, aware that something had infused the troopers' minds with a flare of surprise.

In the bay one of the stormtroopers shouted, and the whole group headed off at a slow run towards the inner side of the bay, disappearing from sight.

Biggs leaned forward, seeing them leave. "Now's our chance, go!"

They set out into the hangar bay, trying to be fast and quiet at the same time as they crossed the open space to the scoutship. Halfway there, Leia sensed a familiar presence and turned...

To the far side of the bay, trapped in the entry corridor with the looming bulk of Darth Vader between him and safety, Obi-Wan dueled for his life.

She stopped dead, all else falling away. "Obi-Wan? _Obi-Wan_!"

As one, the troopers turned and opened fire. The first few shots went wide, and Leia barely flinched, her eyes remaining on the distant duel. As the third bolt zipped dangerously close her wits came back and she brought her saber up, activating it in time to intersect the next blast, which would have taken her arm from her shoulder.

More bolts came in, faster and thicker, and she cut loose from the moment to immerse herself into the Force, letting it guide her reflexes with familiar ease to deflect the incoming shots back to their source. Not a curl of fear touched her under fire, her only emotion frustration that there were too many troops—this was taking too long.

But she kept moving forward in increments, refusing to be halted, desperate to get to Obi-Wan.

Then the last trooper was down, his own blaster shot reflected back towards him in a perfectly-aimed ricochet which spanged brightly off the corner of his helmet and threw him back. Sideways on to her now, Obi-Wan turned just slightly, and for a brief moment he held her eye…

Leia felt a shudder of portent tingle through her, stealing her breath, so that the shout of his name which hung on her lips became a breathless whisper.

She wouldn't leave him; she wouldn't leave him here, no matter what. Even if she had to face Vader himself, even if she fought only to avenge his death and not save her mentor, she wouldn't leave…

Obi-Wan's saber, which had been lifting to a vertical salute before his face, wavered. In that moment Vader brought his own saber around in a wide sweep at head-height—

Leia's anguished yell of, "No!" rang out…and at the last possible second, Obi-Wan's vulnerable salute turned into a clumsy defence as he blocked the blow, driven back two stumbling steps by its power.

Leia found her feet again and set forward at a flat run. Desperate to distract the Sith, she brought one hand up and channelled the Force into a body-blow.

It hit Vader side-on and sent him reeling back several steps, struggling to retain his balance as he let out a grunt of shock.

"Obi-Wan, run!" Leia was almost on them as Vader straightened with a howl of fury.

The counter-blow that hit Leia in the next second sent her tumbling backwards, lifted completely from the floor and hurled across the hangar to impact brutally against the stacked barrels to one side of the hangar. Reality blurred into a shuttered stagger, dragging her awareness thinner as she struggled to stay conscious, only the sharp slice of biting pain keeping her so. She was vaguely aware of Obi-Wan calling out her name; of trying to stand but inexplicably failing as her leg gave way beneath her in a stab of agony. Of pressing her hand to her head and feeling something wet and warm against her skin.

Then Obi-Wan was there, taking her weight as she tried again to stand, her dazed mind not aware yet as to why her body wouldn't obey. He took her arm over his shoulder and lifted her to standing as Leia glanced back to the mouth of the corridor where he and Vader had been duelling just moments before. The blast door was closed, its controls showing a wide, sooty smudge of black where they'd been shorted out….and in the middle of the reinforced doors, moving slowly and inexorably down through super-heated metal which was dropping in bright, molten slag to the floor, a scarlet lightsaber blade was cutting the lock free.

"Quickly," Obi-Wan said, though his voice was calm and even.

He turned them about and Leia staggered on her one good leg, to see Chewie still shouldering his bowcaster—had he shot the door controls? She took a few short, painful steps before Chewie had reached them. He lifted her as if she were a child, howling to Obi-Wan as he turned about and ran for the scoutship.

In the cockpit, Biggs gunned the engines while the hatch was still cycling closed, prompted by a string of barking grunts from Chewie, who shouted to be heard over Artoo's high-pitched whistle. Glancing forward, Leia had a brief glimpse of the bay's exit receding through the cockpit window, combined with the disorienting drag of artificial gravity engaging, before the darkness finally crowded in and took her.

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Vader strode into the darkened control room, frustration at having yet again lost Kenobi gnawing at him, his temper only sated by the awareness of knowledge gained; Kenobi had found another Force-sensitive and had been teaching her. He had a padawan—a well-trained one at that.

"Are they away?" Tarkin's stick-thin form didn't turn, his eyes remaining on the wide viewscreen as Vader approached.

"They have just made the jump into hyperspace."

"You're sure the homing beacon is secure onboard their ship? I'm taking an awful risk, Vader. This had better work."

"It was a homing beacon which gained us Darklighter in the first place. If the Rebels were unable to detect that particular type and frequency before then they will not detect it now."

Motti walked forward as Vader spoke, disgust and fear oozing from every pore as he neared—but he'd learned some respect too, after Vader had turned on him just days ago in the conference room. His hand went briefly to his neck as he glanced to Vader, sure to keep Tarkin between them as he leaned discretely forward.

"Governor, we have a communiqué from Coruscant requiring co-ordinates for a rendezvous. Commander Antilles is to come aboard."

"_Commander_ Antilles?" Tarkin said sharply, eyes shifting from Motti to Vader.

Vader said nothing, though he hadn't failed to register Antilles' promotion. The last Vader had heard, the boy had returned to Coruscant with a mixed bag of failures and successes. He ground his jaw, aware now that he shouldn't have given Antilles control of the subjugation of Toprawa. But he'd known that to simply order the boy to remain onboard the _Immortal_ would have been insufficient. With nothing holding him there, Antilles would have undoubtedly taken a scoutship and followed the search force looking for the _Tantive_, and Vader had wanted to ensure that Kenobi's son had nothing to do with the final retrieval of the Death Star's plans for so many reasons. Aside from keeping Antilles well away from the anticipated victory, Vader had known moments before the _Tantive_ had fled that Kenobi himself was onboard, and though he knew the boy had no loyalty to or interest in Kenobi, Vader had no intention of being the one to reunite them, and every intention of being the one who struck the double blow of finally dealing with Kenobi _and_ being able to tell his son such.

On reading the decisive stand he'd taken at Toprawa, Vader had quickly regretted his choice of responsibility with which to tie Antilles down. He should have known; the boy had his father's head for strategy combined with his Master's scant conscience. What should have taken the average officer days had, with applied zeal and few ethics, been the kind of swift and decisive victory that the Emperor took great delight in.

That Palpatine had considered it sufficient reason to promote the boy seemed…excessive, however. Vader logged such thoughts for later consideration as he listened absently to the clipped annoyance in Tarkin's reply.

"What exactly does he want, coming here?"

"Sir, the communiqué has a mandate attached from the Emperor's Cabinet."

Tarkin frowned as he took the proffered datapad, his hooded eyes narrowing as he pressed his thumb to the biometric plate to decode the communiqué. The flash of outrage that emanated from him within seconds of reading it demanded Vader's complete attention, as the Grand Moff's thin lips curled vehemently.

"The scheming, devious little runt."

"What?" Vader demanded.

Tarkin lifted his head, fury blazing from him. "Palpatine's given him command."

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Han leaned over the small sink in his queaters onboard the _Vendetta _to sluice some water on his face, trying to wake up. His eyes rolled skyward as he remembered Indo's casual division of shifts for the three-day journey.

"I will attend morning and afternoon shifts, so that I can be sure Luke is present for lessons arranged by HoloNet. You will take the evening shifts."

It had sounded pretty good at first mention—if you skipped over Indo's apparent belief that Han was somehow incapable or just plain unwilling to make the kid sit down through lessons—as if not only was Indo finally giving Han some genuine function here, but Han was also only expected to do half the amount; easing him in, maybe. He'd been so impressed that he'd even offered to do a few afternoons as well. It wasn't until a typically efficient roster had paged up on the comm system in his quarters that Han had realized that 'evening' apparently meant from eight at night until eight the following morning.

Of course the kid was asleep for half of that, but if he was gonna do anything contrary, you could generally guarantee that it'd be somewhere in those remaining hours.

He rolled his eyes…and they held at their highest point as he stared at the reflection of his fresher ceiling: a tile to one side of the light fitting wasn't quite in line with the others, the slightest of shadows marking where it had been popped out. Surely they weren't putting surveillance equipment in his quarters now—though actually, he wouldn't put it past Indo. Grumbling an oath, Han balanced unsteadily on the pan seat to lean forward and push gingerly at the tile. It clicked neatly loose, and Han stood on tip-toe to see inside the small, dark space which housed the ridiculous amount of ducting that always seemed necessary to keep quarters liveable on any starship.

It wasn't surveillance. There, nestled against the reams of pipes, was something else entirely…

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The kid was slouched at the desk in his quarters, his head resting in his hand and a holoreader lit before him, though his attention was on the piece of flimsiplast he was sketching on. He looked up without lifting his head as Han entered with a grin.

"Here ya go—thought you might want to keep the box at least."

He held it out as Luke stared, completely unfazed. Still triumphant, Han slapped the silver box he'd found down onto the table. "Oh, I wouldn't bother opening it though; I flushed the contents. You said if I found your spice I could do whatever I wanted with it."

The kid only tilted his head to go back to his drawing. "Well done, smartass. You know that water goes back into recyc, don't you? We're gonna have a very mellow crew this trip."

Han hesitated for a second, then shook his head. "Filters'll get it out."

"Not all of it. I may have had to do a few impromptu bowl flushes myself. It's surprising how much stays in the recyc'd water."

"Seriously?"

Luke shrugged without looking up. "No big deal. Like I said, I've done it before. People just sorta…trip up steps more, or stare at the lights on their comm board without blinking. Probably Captain Roth will let a few more people off with whatever the hell half-baked charges he was gonna throw at them. Think of it as spreading the love."

"Great. Here am I on military parole, and I just drugged a Star Destroyer's crew."

"I think it's just the officers actually; we have a different recyc."

"Spectacular," Han deadpanned. "Why'd you hide it in my quarters anyway? That's…" He paused, suddenly curious. "Have you done it before?"

"Several times."

"As someone who is, I remind you, on military parole, many thanks. You have a whole ship—why my quarters?"

Luke finally put down the stylus—Han's old stylus, he'd noticed—and picked up the box, opening it to check anyway. "Amused me, I guess."

"You have a warped sense of humor."

"I have a warped sense of everything," the kid said, simple awareness in the dry rejoinder.

Han pulled up the only other chair in the kid's quarters to sit opposite him, lifting his feet up to rest his ankles on the edge of the desk, still pleased with himself. "So I guess one way or another, this is now a spice-free trip, huh?"

"What was the other way?"

"You said you wouldn't tote this trip,"

"No, you said why don't I go without. I just changed the subject."

Han scowled. "Well now you're gonna anyway…That is all the spice you've got, isn't it?"

Luke picked up the stylus again, attention going back to the flimsiplast. "Sure, whatever."

"Really? I'm serious now."

The kid lifted teasing eyes from his drawing. "Oh you're serious? Well that makes all the difference."

Han stared for a few seconds more… "You've got more spice, haven't you?"

Luke didn't answer, but that half-smile remained on his face, and Han shook his head. "C'mon, this is cheating."

"Why is it cheating? You found the spice, you flushed it…you drugged the command crew, incidentally…end of game."

"Yeah but you acted like it was all you had."

"No, you _assumed_ it was all I had."

Han dropped his feet and straightened, his voice labored with strained patience. "Okay, do you _have_ any more?"

"Why do you assume that I'm ever gonna tell you the truth? It's not like there hasn't been a precedent set."

"You're killing me, you know that?"

The amusement was instantly gone from the kid's face. "Don't say that."

"You're killing me? Why?"

"Just don't." Luke tensed, visibly withdrawing into himself. "I don't like it. It's uncalled-for and it's cruel."

The kid's eyes came to Han's for a few seconds then looked quickly down—because they both knew what he'd let slip. Han took a breath to speak, but the kid beat him to it, moving the subject quickly on.

"So…have you ever met the Emperor's favorite Moff?"

Han stared a few seconds, wondering whether to push it, but the kid kept his head down, scowling as he drew with quick, heavy strokes, strong enough to buckle the flimsiplast slightly as he scribbled. Watching, Han saw a quick sketch of Tarkin's face appear, deep-set eyes and chiselled features heavily shaded.

"Actually I have," he conceded, letting the moment go. "He gave the speech the year I graduated from Carida. Shook my hand and congratulated me on being valedictorian—he won't remember that though. Had the kind of loose, limp handshake you instantly distrust."

The kid paused momentarily to look up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, I actually met him—what are the odds?"

"No, I mean, you were valedictorian?"

"It was a points-average rather than a popularity contest."

"I know."

There was something about the way the kid said it that made Han straightened in realization, remembering that very first night in the cell of the Stormtroopers' Sector-House.

"You went to Carida! That's how you knew the gold and blue unit patch on my flight jacket."

"I would have known it anyway, but yeah, Carida."

Han grinned slyly. "So what, you weren't valedictorian? I'm shocked—and a little disappointed."

Kid only shrugged. "I didn't stick around that long—I aced the course in eight months and left."

"Eight months?" Han moved in his chair. "Show off."

"You're telling me you couldn't have done that course in eight months, if they'd let you?"

"Course I could."

"Well then?"

"Still…" Han glanced down to pick at an imaginary something on the table, "show off."

Luke grinned without looking up. "I'm surprised you shook his hand."

"Who, Tarkins? Why?"

The kid shrugged. "The Wookiee in the holo…the one you always take everywhere with you."

Han hadn't though the kid had even noticed. It wasn't like he made a big thing of it or anything, but out of habit from taking it anywhere he was stationed, he generally carried the small holo-projector with him onto any ship he travelled in, so that Dewlanna had smiled down at him from the shelves of an assortment of ships of the line, as Han's erratic career had careened between major and minor catastrophies. He'd always kinda figured she'd've been proud to know that Han had made it into the Imperial Navy…of late, he wasn't so sure.

"I'm guessing she left an impression," Luke said tentatively without looking up. His hand had moved across the flimsiplast now as he started a quick sketch of Dewlanna, and Han wondered if it was from memory, or if Luke was picking it out of his head. Kid always got the eyes right; she always seemed to be laughing.

"Because?"

"The slave—the one you got court-martialled for—it was a Wookiee, too." Luke paused, his stylus stilling. "You do know about the Wookiee slaves?"

Han braced slightly, remembering the big, broad Wookiee, shackled and beaten, but not broken. "What about them?"

Luke studied him for a second as he seemed to consider, then glanced away, resuming his sketch. "Nothing. Doesn't matter."

"Tell me?"

"No."

"Luke! You can't start something like that, then change your mind."

The kid stared with exaggerated interest at his work, and Han fought to pull his mood onto a more even keel because he knew Luke would pick up on it. "C'mon, spill."

Luke shrugged without looking up. "Tarkin was the one who suggested using Wookiee slaves to the Emperor, because they're strong but technically minded. He wanted them for the Death Star's construction, because it fell behind with other…other enforced labor."

Han stared, remembering the slave ship that his commanding officer, Nyklas, had ordered him to board when TIEs had finally brought its scuppering by the big Wookiee to an end. Remembering his refusal of Nyklas' order to shoot and skin the injured Wookiee who had gotten the slaves out.

It was because of that same Wookiee that Han had eventually faced charges of gross insubordination. It was because of Dewlanna, in the first place, that he'd known that he had to face off against Nyklas in the Wookiee's defence. Because of Dewlanna that he was here now, talking to a kid whose childhood had been as broken and miserable as his own.

And just like the cogs of some vast machine, huge tracts of his life fell into place with such perfect precision that he had to wonder at his own blithe dismissal of fate.

"Why didn't you want to tell me?" he asked at last.

Luke's sketching came to a slow stop. He tapped the surface of the flimsy a few times with the stylus without lifting his head. "I didn't want you to think I had anything to do with it, and I…I didn't want you to leave."

Still that same fear that gnawed at the kid, despite everything. But then it was hardly surprising; Palpatine had made sure the kid struggled through a shifting, unanchored life in which he was the only constant. Everything else was transient and undependable. But not any more.

"I'm not going anywhere, I've told you that. You want me to leave, you're gonna have to force me out the door, because that's the only way you'll get rid of me, understand?" Han reached out and held his open hand before the kid, knowing that Luke didn't like to be touched but deciding, on the spur of the moment, that he'd had enough of that, and it was time to start makin' some changes of his own around here. "Put it there." He waited, hand held expectantly out…

For long moments the kid simply stared, lips pursed slightly. When his hand moved, it was actually a reflexive backward pull towards his own body for a moment…then he placed the stylus carefully down and reached hesitantly forward to take Han's hand.

Han grinned, pressing just slightly as he shook the kid's hand. "We're in this for the long haul. Me and you, pal—till the end."

Luke slipped free and crossed his arms about his body, hands hidden uneasily beneath them. Deeply uncomfortable, he looked wryly up at Han. "I need a smoke."

"Tough."

The kid leaned back, closing his eyes. "This could be a long, long haul."

"For you and me both, pal," Han said. "You and me both."

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It was four a.m. when the comm in Han's quarters sounded. He tried hard to ignore it, but it didn't stop. Cursing at the fact that they chose to embed the shipwide comm into workdesks on Destroyers, and then screw the workdesks to the floor in the main room, Han eventually rose and padded across the cold floor. "Solo."

"Sir, it's Lieutenant Rendrake here. I have a comm from Lieutenant Commander Klaff in stellar cartography."

Han hesitated, still blinking sleep away. "Wh…now?"

"Yes, Sir. I think they're having a…there may be a little confusion down there."

"Yeah? Tell 'em welcome to the club," Han griped. When the line remained silent, he sighed. "Put him through."

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It was another ten minutes of general cursing before Han had swallowed his pride and his ire sufficiently to comm Indo, mollifying himself with the knowledge that the Viscount too was now awake at four a.m.

"Hey," Han said, taking a kind of quiet pride in the fact that even after several months, he was still unsure how exactly you were meant to address a viscount. "I just got a comm from stellar cartography…"

"Yes, they've commed me already." The man sounded offensively crisp and awake to Han, even at this hour. "I referred them to you."

"Luke's in there—he's been in there since before midnight."

"I'm aware of that."

Unseen, Han grimaced; the man was gonna make him go the whole nine yards.

"So, uh…any idea why?"

The line remained silent for long seconds, and just like the comm officer who had reported the fact to Han, it was now Han's turn to hold quiet and hope to hell that the person on the other end would break first.

It took Indo about twice as long to crack. "Has he taken his tablets?"

"Yeah, I reminded him hours ago," Han said, of the nightly tablets that the kid always took. He'd never asked what they were for—it seemed intrusive, and he'd known damn well that whether he'd asked Indo or the kid, he'd still get shot down.

"You _reminded _him," Indo repeated dryly. "And you've never thought to wonder why myself or a member of staff assiduously stands with him every night whilst he does so."

"…What are they?"

Indo ignored the question entirely. "There are small test kits in the medi-center—ask a medic for box nine…don't tell him what it's for or why you need it, just take it to your quarters. The kit has a swab test that's pre-soaked. Luke knows the routine; he puts the swab strip in his mouth for ten seconds. If it goes black or gray, he's taken his tablets. If it remains white, you need to be a little less…gullible in future."

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Han was standing in cartography twenty minutes later, test kit in hand, staring up at a hyped and defensive Luke who was standing on one of the higher walkways of the massive chamber, the holographic maps of several sectors projected about him, their light casting pale blue hues about the dimmed room.

"I can't believe you're gonna test me!"

"Hey, I just got dragged out of bed at four a.m.!"

Luke pursed his lips, unrepentant. "Well let me save you a kit; I didn't take them."

"I can't believe you didn't take the damn tablets!"

"Please, have you _met_ me? Of course I didn't take the damn tablets."

"Why didn't you take 'em?"

"Because they're not for anything—all they do is make me sleep!"

"Damn straight they do," Han said. "It's four a.m.!"

Luke glanced to the chrono unperturbed, voice instantly switching from hotly annoyed to calmly conversational. "Actually, it's four-thirty now."

"Where're the tablets?"

"Seriously, you think I kept them?"

"Fine. I have some more in my quarters."

"No, you don't. You think you do," Luke added over Han's half-formed reply, "but you don't."

"You're kidding me."

"What d'you think I was actually doing in there when I decided to put my spice box in your fresher?"

"I think you were hiding the damn spice box!"

"Actually that's true. But then the tablets were right there on your table…"

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"They're just sleeping tablets, that's all they are."

"How d'you know?" Han said, at the end of his tether, sure the tablets were more than that considering the importance that Indo clearly placed on them. "Did you actually ask?"

"Ask?" Luke laughed derisively. "Oh absolutely, that's right—you _ask_ people in the Imperial palace and of course, you get the truth. No, I didn't _ask_. I took 'em to a guy I know who does a little chemical processing for recreational use, and he did a breakdown on them for me. They're just sleeping tablets, soporifics. They're just more drugs, Han, that's all they are. What makes you think those are so right and the spice I take so wrong? They both do the same thing, they dull your edge."

Han frowned. "So why take the spice at all?"

Luke's lips pursed into a thin line, instantly on the defensive as he swung down under the walkway's handrail to land close to Han. "It's none of your business what I do or why. You want me to take the damn drugs like everyone else does, just so you can have an easy life? Fine, I'll take them."

"Hey, what the hell? Calm down!"

"Just give me the stupid tablets." His voice was weary now, dismissive, as if he wanted Han gone.

"Seriously, is that all they are?"

"I just told you. Indo keeps a supply in the medicenter—go and get them."

"No, to hell with them, if that's all they're for." Han hesitated…but couldn't help but ask. "That _is_ all they're for, right?"

The kid quietened slightly at Han's refusal to get more tablets. "The only reason I get force-fed them is because Palpatine always liked to know where I was at any given hour, and it was easier for him—and Indo—to give a young kid tablets to make him sleep rather than have to deal with watching him all day and all night. I'm not a kid any more."

"Have you ever not taken them?" Han asked, drawn in.

"More times than anybody knows," Luke said with a sly grin.

"What happens?"

Luke shrugged, as if it were obvious. "I go out, around Coruscant."

"See? That's why they want you to take 'em! Cos when you don't, you just take off and go smokin' your way round every dive on Coruscant."

"Hey, I sit in stuffy, airless rooms day in day out, listening to old men pay empty lipservice to an Emperor who'd kill any one of them as soon as look at them, myself included. Yes, I get out!"

"Why don't you try—just try—not doing the disappearing act for a while? Why don't you actually act responsibly and stay where you're meant to be, and maybe, if Palpatine sees he can trust you, maybe he actually will."

"What makes you think you know Palpatine better than I do? Because let me tell you, I've known him most of my life, and he's never once acknowledged a single thing I've done. He's never once given me a break."

Han didn't shirk from the kid's stare. "Just 'cos he's wrong, that doesn't make what you're doing right."

"Please," Luke dismissed dryly.

"Hey, I'm just trying to figure a way out of this mess. I don't want to have to go through this every night for the next ten years, and I don't particularly think you do either."

"Right, 'cos you'll be here in ten years' time."

"I've already told you I will be."

Luke looked down, slightly mollified, and Han wondered if he'd actually gotten through to the kid…and in that moment it was so obvious why. So obvious why Indo had his own charmed immunity from Luke's temper: because he'd stayed. Because he was the single, lasting constant in Luke's life, beside Palpatine.

Suddenly hopeful, Han tried again. "Listen, forget the tablets, but just…maybe play the game, huh?"

"That's rich, coming from you."

"C'mon, just give it a go. One month—don't slope off in the middle of the night for one month, huh?"

The kid hesitated, then nodded just slightly, seeming earnest and contrite. "Okay, I'll try."

Han too quietened, taken by the kid's sincerity. "Well good."

They looked at each other for long seconds, before eventually Han sighed, tilting his head to indicate the door behind him. "Go on then—get to bed."

Kid was at the door before Han looked up again. "Luke?"

The kid turned, his open, honest face a picture of youthful innocence in that moment—and Han's eyes narrowed knowingly. "You're not gonna stay in, are you?"

The ghost of a hurt expression formed briefly on the kid's guiltless face, before it melted into a wicked grin. "No, not a chance. Sorry."

Han nodded just once. "Thought so. Spice thing?"

Luke paused, lips pursed in thought. "I'll see how it goes."

"Good enough," Han nodded. "Then I'll be here."

The kid raised his chin. "Just so you know—I'm not stopping spice just so you'll stay."

"I'm not staying just 'cos you're stopping the spice," Han replied.

"Fine."

"Good."

"We done?"

"For tonight." Han held his ground as the kid hesitated for a second longer then left. Stared at the closed door in silence for long seconds, before he finally spoke out into the empty room. "Did I just _win_ an argument with Luke Antilles?" He straightened, fingers knitting behind his head. "Damn, I'm good!"

From the other side of the closed door, he heard the kid's muffled voice. "No, you did _not_ win! At best, you compromised."

Grinning at the fact that the kid had clearly stood on his side of that door wondering what the hell had just happened, exactly as Han had, he shouted to the still-closed door. "Yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and call that a win."

"Now who's delusional?"

"Hey, only one of us is hanging around a closed door."

"And only one of us was talking to an empty room."

"Go to bed!"

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To be continued…


	17. Chapter 17

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**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

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Luke sat to the far side of the circular, black mirror-polished table in the darkened conference room onboard the Death Star, well aware of the fact that he was seated in Moff Tarkin's chair and wondering if the man in question, standing six paces away to the far side of the table and close to an already agitated Vader, had enough nerve and so little sense that he'd try to do something about it.

To the center of the table a holo-projector was showing security footage of a woman, the Rebel pilot Darklighter and a Wookiee running down corridors at speed. On audio, the combined inter-troop chatter was playing out just exactly what was being done minute by minute to stop them—which was clearly not enough, as they'd flown the same heavy scoutship that they'd arrived in out of the Death Star less than ten minutes later.

The image cut to another angle as the group moved beneath another security lens, and Luke looked at the woman's face without comment. He knew it was Leia Skywalker, of course—had recognized her almost instantly—but since it was Vader's and not his operation that had gone so wrong, he had no intention of sharing that fact. They already knew that Kenobi had been with the small group who had broken the Rebel pilot out of his cell and, just to add insult to injury, reclaimed the droid carrying the plans, then escaped Vader's grip yet again. Add a second, unknown Jedi to the mix, who had also managed to get away, and a major gaffe became a crucial one, following right on the heels of the mistake that had put Luke here on the Death Star in the first place. So all things considered, if Luke was going to tell anyone just how spectacularly Vader had tripped up this time, it would be Palpatine...and it would be with care.

He flicked the image to still, then leaned back just slightly, aware of how much his presence—and more importantly his status—here was galling the two men standing to the far side of the table. "So, and correct me if I have this wrong, because frankly I'm amazed…you actually caught the Rebel pilot, had him in detention, and the full set of Death Star plans under your control again, and you _still_ couldn't keep hold of them."

"The plans have been utilized to draw the Rebels out—force them to reveal their main base," Vader rumbled from beside Tarkin, the threat evident in his voice.

"I see," Luke nodded slowly, unfazed. "Draw them out…"

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Giving the opening salvos of Antilles' offensive a wide berth, Wilhuff Tarkin instead took the time to study his new adjutant, Lieutenant Solo, who stood to loose attention a few paces behind Antilles, himself remaining silent. It seemed to Tarkin that both of them were smart enough to know that this was an ongoing round in the private grudge-match between two Sith, and both were far too smart to ever intervene.

Solo glanced just once at Tarkin, to measure and dismiss him in the time it took to look away again, his inference clear. The misapprehension among the lower ranks that Moffs were old and soft was well known to Tarkin, and he took great pleasure in disproving it at every opportunity. Solo, of course, was under Antilles' protection though, which bought him a certain immunity. Sith were a handful at the best of times, even as young as Antilles, who let out his next words in a dry sigh.

"And it didn't occur to you to…'draw them out' with an incomplete copy?"

"You think they are such amateurs that they wouldn't check the underlying code for gaps or flaws?"

"Well then how about a copy with a self-destruct. A distance destruct. Limited number of accesses. A time key." The young man's voice dripped sarcasm, hands steepled before him, elbows resting on the polished table. "Or, I don't know….why not just give them incorrect plans?"

"We have reason to believe that they had already accessed parts of the original plans whilst they held them onboard the _Tantive_."

"And when your…" Antilles paused to glance needlessly down at the datapad on the desk before him, "Rebel farmer was waltzing through the Death Star with the plans…did you believe he'd take the time to check them then, too? Because I doubt the average dirt-farmer is that cool-headed—or that competent."

"Moisture farmer," Vader ground out.

"What?"

"He was a moisture farmer. His home planet of Tatooine is a desert-planet—moisture must be extracted by mechanical means…farmed. And he was already a Rebel pilot—a hardened soldier."

"An eighteen-year-old hardened soldier?"

"And how old are you?" Vader parried, as unwilling as ever to let any challenge pass from the wayward youth, no matter how small, Tarkin knew. And he had a point; Antilles' dismissive tone was hardly fair comment considering that he himself was just sixteen and long since battle-seasoned, in so many ways. And as for Kenobi, who had led the incursion, the boy chose very specifically not to mention him…though Tarkin was one of the Emperor's trusted few who knew that despite his name, Antilles was in fact Kenobi's illegitimate son. Which in itself raised another question, only just occurring: because if Tarkin was in control of the Death Star when it destroyed whichever base Kenobi was heading towards, then he would, effectively, become the man who had killed the boy's father. Or was that one of the reasons why the Emperor had sent the boy here with that executive mandate—to have him do the deed himself. A true test of loyalty for a youth on the very brink of taking up his position amongst the most exceptional and loyal of Palpatine's vassals. Yes…that would seem appropriate for the man for whom every move had many motives.

And it may account for the boy's temperament when he'd arrived here today…or that could have simply been Vader, who had always gleaned great satisfaction in taking the youth down at every opportunity. Tarkin had expected Antilles to come in here all bluster and arrogance, handing out orders from the moment his boot touched the Death Star's deck plates. But as yet the young man had kept a surprisingly low profile, moving straight to a private meeting rather than heading for the bridge, which he now had the authority to command.

That youthful face hardened for a fraction of a second at Vader's latest derision, but it was nothing in the greater scheme of their ongoing feud, and the boy continued unfazed.

"Old enough to know that a…hardened soldier and a Jedi Master would know better than to stop mid-escape to run a few checks on the data they were stealing. First you get out alive—then you see what you got out with."

"The plans they retrieved whilst here were stored in the memory of the pilot's astromech droid, which was in the process of being returned to Coruscant intact, to find out just exactly what the Rebels knew. There was neither the time nor the opportunity to replace or alter them when Kenobi initiated the rescue, and it would have logged if its own memory banks had been tampered with."

Luke nodded coolly. "I see. So, cutting through the details, it seems to me that what you're saying is that you actually voluntarily handed a complete set of plans which the Emperor considered of sufficient importance to commit a military taskforce to regaining, _back_ to the Rebellion."

"The scoutship they escaped in is being tracked now," Vader stated flatly. "When the co-ordinates finalize, it will be at the main Rebel base, and the Death Star will move to destroy it and the plans immediately."

"You presumably have some credible reason to believe they'll go to anything other than a satellite base—protect their main forces and transmit the plans from there?"

"We've already proven the Death Star is operational and that we are prepared to use it on any and all enemies of the State. Their hand will be forced, for fear of another reprisal. They know that wherever they stop, they will leave a trail of retribution and destruction behind them that their virtuous image can ill afford. They _will_ go to their main base."

The boy was clearly about to scorn Lord Vader's certainty…then paused, staring at him intently. "You used the Force—on the pilot, when he was in the detention center. You planted an impulse to return to his main base."

In the grating timbre of Lord Vader's voice, Tarkin heard his annoyance at having their strategy called before he could reveal it himself. "He was the obvious choice, and the plan remains valid despite Kenobi's involvement. Darklighter holds military rank in the Rebellion whereas the Jedi have remained always eager to defend their precious autonomy, lending their abilities but remaining separate. Darklighter will hold to his decision to return to his main base, and where he goes, Kenobi will have no option but to follow…which places the core of the Rebellion within striking distance."

Tarkin didn't miss the reaction from the young man, subtle as it was. The fact that it had silenced him was a surprise in itself. Tarkin risked a momentary glance to the hulking shadow beside him, wondering if Lord Vader had let his peer go through all of his tirade simply for the pleasure of this moment in revealing a greater plan. Certainly his voice, as he continued, was triumphant—near gloating, despite knowing the youth's relationship to the Jedi Kenobi.

"Obi-Wan may have been adept enough to hide from the Empire's fleet for two decades, but hiding from the Death Star will prove a futile endeavour. The Jedi will be dead, the plans destroyed and the Rebellion broken—and the Empire's interests served."

"The _Emperor's_ interests," the younger man corrected sharply, finding his voice again. It was well known that the boy's loyalty to Palpatine was near-zealous, though few knew that he was in the final stages of his training to become an Emperor's Hand—a unique one at that, so the Emperor claimed. For that reason, and that reason alone, Tarkin had always taken care not to cross the boy.

"Of course," Vader said beside him, coolly unrepentant.

The young man at the far side of the table dropped his head slightly, eyes half-closed as if in consideration, as the moment stretched. In the brittle stillness, Tarkin felt as if he were standing at the edge of a storm, the hairs on the back of his neck standing unaccountably on end…

Finally those clear blue eyes opened slowly, and the slightest of icy smiles touched the corners of the boy's lips, unsettling on one so young. "Well then, I see no reason to take responsibility for the proceedings from you. I look forward to observing your…victory."

Vader moved a fraction beside Tarkin. "If there is something you have seen, then—"

"Now what could I possibly see that you could not, Lord Vader?" The youth leaned back, his tone near to a taunt.

Again they remained still, locked in some private battle, no words spoken. Finally Vader wheeled about and strode from the room, leaving Antilles to stare for long moments at the now-closed door before he eventually looked to Tarkin. "Continue on your present course and inform me when you've reached your destination—I'll be in my quarters."

Tarkin frowned just slightly, still privately fuming at having had his authority here usurped. A clear, if indirect, indication that the Emperor was more than willing to rescind power and favor on a whim, and an unwelcome reminder of what their failure here would bring down on both himself and Lord Vader, should they disappoint. Now, Antilles too was inescapably involved, it seemed—and of all those here, he knew best just what Palpatine's fury could be.

Still, it was hardly the first time that the youth had been placed in such a position of risk to further his training, and when he was, he had a reputation for acting without hesitation, with the confidence that only youth could muster... Yet now, worryingly, he seemed disinclined to take the authority granted him.

"You don't wish to go to the bridge?" Tarkin asked.

"No," Antilles said, very sure. "If you're both so confident of your plan, then carry it to its conclusion."

Tarkin nodded once before walking calmly from the room, privately wondering if he was being given enough rope to hang himself. If so, he would prove the little upstart wrong, Sith or no. It wasn't enough that the Emperor had forced one Sith on him for the Death Star's inaugural actions; now he had two—and he was very much aware that he was caught in the middle of their own private power-struggles.

Ah, but such power, he reflected as he walked; what he wouldn't give to stand at that level… In fact there was only one price that he wasn't prepared to pay, and that was to place himself in the line of fire between these two warriors, because he was hardly the only one to believe that in the end, despite the Emperor's orders to the contrary, there could only be one possible outcome.

The trick then, was to place himself above them—a difficult thing to do, given their position. Still, Tarkin had always enjoyed the Emperor's confidence, and the removal of the Rebellion's main base may well enable him to cement that patronage in a way that would make him untouchable even to Palpatine's Sith. When this action was successful, he would make sure it was he and not Vader who took the credit. And if it did fail…well then he would put equal effort into making sure that Lord Vader took every bit of the blame.

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Luke relaxed slightly as Tarkin left, well aware of the old Moff's astute sense of political survival. "Well, I'm sure Tarkin will dedicate the next few hours to looking for a hundred and one ways to deflect culpability."

"For the plans?" Solo asked.

"For this whole fiasco," Luke replied thoughtfully. "It's not over yet."

"You think it's not gonna work?"

Luke half-closed his eyes. "I don't know. I see…complications—especially when Jedi are involved. This could easily get out of hand, and like Tarkin, I don't want to be the one in charge if it does."

Having now experienced firsthand what the repercussions were to a Force-sensitive when the Death Star turned its destructive power on a planet, Luke couldn't care less if it were to fail in its first major battle; he'd never trusted it throughout its manufacture, and with only one deployment, he'd already come to loath it intensely. But if his Master wanted it then the choice was his, and Luke would do as he was commanded and ensure its safety.

Still, for himself, he wanted as little to do with it as possible—in fact he'd put a great deal of time and effort into just that during the last few years—and now, thanks to Vader and Tarkin's ineptitude, he'd somehow ended up in command of it. But he hadn't survived nine years beneath Palpatine's constant attention without developing a shrewd survival instinct of his own, and nothing concentrated that sense like the knowledge that he was responsible for this monstrosity, to his Master's usual high expectations. If Tarkin failed in delivering the outcome the Emperor expected, he would doubtless receive a demotion to Moff and a year's cold shoulder. If Luke were to fail…

Even Tarkin believed Luke was untouchable, he could sense that distinctly within the man's resentment of him. He thought Luke to be the Emperor's blue-eyed boy, his rising star. He never once considered the price for such favor. When luke had needed help, no one had been there…so why should he care now about anyone else? You were alone in the galaxy. You could count on no one to help you—ever. He'd learned that the hard way; had the lesson underlined again and again by his Master, with his own unique twist. Luke's mind went, as it always did in such moments, to his mother. In a searing flash he saw her as he always saw her now, shouting out, eyes wide in desperate fear…

He jolted straight, blinking the vision away…but the guilt remained, gnawing within him. His Master had promised that it would cease—that if he always did as commanded, then the scar would fade without a trace…but it never had. He'd done everything asked of him, always…yet that moment remained, a wound within his memories which never healed.

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To Han's count, this was the fifth night without any sleeping tablets, and though they'd left the _Vendetta_ and so no one here commed him with carefully-worded queries as to whether Commander Antilles should be up at four a.m., the kid was still racking up an impressive hours record without the nightly tablets. Tonight it was the comms room, and it was midnight, so Han was making one last check in before he went to bed, figuring—hoping—that maybe if everyone stopped harassing the kid about what he could and couldn't do, he'd eventually realize a few things—like the fact that he needed sleep—for himself.

When he entered the comms room, the three non-coms on duty there all gave him hopeful, long-suffering looks. It didn't take Han long to realize why; in the amount of time it took him to walk across the cabin and stand behind the kid where he stood at a console, Luke had played the same short message four times.

"Listen to this." Luke didn't turn as Han came to a stop, simply keying the console to play again.

It was short, just two brief sentences of garbled patois in a man's voice. "Where's it from…the Rebels?"

"It's the message that the shuttle with Darklighter onboard sent off, just before they jumped to hyperspace." The kid frowned, playing it again. "It's not in the linguistics base, but it's definitely spoken as a language, rather than a code or random words. The translator can identify Corellian and Basic words, but they make no sense, and there's not enough to start deciphering it."

He played it again, and Han watched as one of the non-coms stood and left the room with a pained expression, before he turned back to Luke. "How many times have you played this?"

"Listen—it's one short sentence, then a repetition in the middle of the second sentence…hear it? He says 'we have' twice in Basic, in the second sentence, then 'we're' soon afterwards."

Han dropped his voice. "It says, 'Pilot Two to…_something_ Base. We have the plans—repeat, we have the plans and…_something_…we're on our way'. At least, that's what it's supposed to say. The guy's obviously not Corellian, it sounds like someone's taught him it practically by rote—he gets a few words in the wrong order."

Luke turned, eyes widening, then immediately looked to the two remaining non-coms. "You're dismissed."

They couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

"How do you know it?" Luke asked.

"It's _Kodig Cant_, a kind of patois spoken by Corellian smugglers."

"How would you know what Corellian smugglers speak?" The kid worked it out even as he asked the question. "Shrike—because of Shrike."

"Your pilot there must know there's someone at the other end who could understand it—probably the Corellian who taught it to him."

"Why isn't it on the linguistics base?"

Han shrugged. "It's a smugglers' language—they don't exactly bandy it about. They sure as hell don't put it in linguistics libraries. Plus it changes constantly, it's supposed to be erratic and random."

"Teach me."

"What?"

"Teach me!"

It was the most animated Han had seen the kid in a while. Indo may have poured information into him, but the kid had a drive to learn too, that much was clear.

"Teach you Kodig?"

"C'mon, I'm good at languages."

"It's not really a language, more…just an assortment of slang and colloquialisms, words and phrases that mean other things entirely. You kinda learn it on the job. And when the hell would you use it, anyway?"

"I would have used it now, for one."

"It's not written down anywhere."

"Well then tell it to me! C'mon, I taught you how to avoid having your thoughts read."

Han sighed. "It changes all the time…what I know won't be current any more."

"You knew that," Luke argued, nodding toward the comm console. "C'mon, it'll be something to do when I should be smoking spice."

"_Should_ _be_ smoking?" Han asked dryly. "And what is this, blackmail?"

The kid grinned. "You make it sound so cheap."

"I'll think about it," Han evaded.

"While you're thinking about it, why don't you get out an audio loop and dictate the words."

"There're about five hundred words!"

"Well that sounds perfect." Kid grinned, tilting his head. "Speed your brain works, by the time you've thought about it, you'll've got through just about that many."

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The briefing broke up by mutual consent, none of its members actually wanting to be there in the first place, a fact that had made it one of the briefest military meetings Han had ever attended. And probably one of the most antagonistic; sitting against the wall at the kid's back with Indo, Han had watched from a ringside seat as Luke again sat in what was clearly the station commander's chair at the big, circular conference table, with Tarkin sitting directly opposite and Vader to one side of him, elbows on the table, hands clasped with fingers intertwined, the hide of his black gloves creaking occasionally as his grip tightened.

The signal they'd been waiting for from the hidden tracker had begun transmitting, and the Death Star was already at lightspeed, on course to the Yavin system in the Outer Rim, with the SD _Vendetta_ travelling in sync. With nothing bigger than a standard frigate near to the signal's location in the Yavin system, and the Death Star only a day's travel away, the decision was made to hold off any local response. Tarkin in particular seemed eager that the Death Star be the first and only military means in the system when they reached the base, claiming that it was fitting that on its inaugural flight, the Death Star would effectively remove the core of all organized Rebellion. He'd even tried—and been vetoed by Luke—to redirect the _Vendetta_ from the upcoming action.

Generally though, rather than impose his view backed up by the Emperor's mandate, the kid had remained silent, allowing Grand Moff Tarkin to continue to dictate events. In fact throughout most of Tarkin's posturing, Luke had kept his head down, presumably staring at the polished table before him, whose black surface mirrored the low ambient lighting which picked out the angular details to the walls of the circular room. Vader's only contribution had been to turn several times to stare stonily at Luke, though the kid never once looked to him, head remaining down.

The sticking point had come towards the end of the meeting.

"The Frigate _Pavlic_ has long-range scouts in less than a day's range," Luke had observed, eyes on the datapad he'd brought in with him. "We could revert briefly from lightspeed to organize a recon, so we have intel when we arrive at Yavin."

"We don't need scoutship aid," Tarkin dismissed brusquely. "The information is irrelevant."

Luke lifted his head and even Vader turned slightly, though he didn't allow a rift to be seen in the united front he and Tarkin maintained before the kid. Han had to wonder what he felt behind closed doors, 'cos Vader didn't come over as the tolerant type. Still, his silence now meant that it was left to Luke to state what seemed glaringly obvious to Han.

"Advance information is never irrelevant."

"The Death Star makes such trivia unimportant," Tarkin held. "This will not be an interdiction and aerial bombardment. Such tactics are now obsolete. We will arrive in the system and we will destroy Yavin Four. Completely."

Sitting behind the kid, Han saw him straighten in a brief moment of visible discomfort. Tarkin's eyes dropped to even deeper shadows as he frowned. "You surely don't disagree? You don't think that this situation—this opportunity—deserves anything less than the ultimate response?"

"Of course it deserves a response equal to its threat. They deserve total eradication." Luke put down the stylus Han hadn't even known he'd been holding, then straightened the datapad before him, playing for time for a few moments before he looked up. "However, I need to consult with the Emperor before I can sanction that decision."

Beside Han, Indo let out a quiet huff as he moved slightly, a huge reaction from the normally inscrutable Viscount.

Tarkin's jaw set beneath hollowed cheeks as he stared at Luke, voice strained. "You hold the Emperor's mandate."

The kid held that flinty glare without flinching. "I hold it, I don't abuse it."

"It's hardly a difficult decision."

Only now did Han begin to think on Luke's reluctance to take command here, when he'd done so without a second's hesitation onboard the _Immortal_. His mind went back to the very first time he and Luke had really spoken, in the library at the palace, when the kid had first mentioned the battle station they were now onboard and Han had asked him the question that nobody else seemed willing to: _"What if your finger's on that button?"_

"If so, you can be confident you'll get the answer you clearly want." Luke stood briskly, looking to bring the meeting to an end. "If there's nothing else at this time?"

Tarkin too rose, his frustration obvious. "We have less than three hours to reversion—do you intend to consult the Emperor on every aspect of our operation whilst you're here?"

"This battle station acts in the Emperor's name and to his advantage, Grand Moff Tarkin. Perhaps if you remembered that more often, I wouldn't have to be here at all. I will consult with him, and give you your permissions in due time."

Tarkin stared across the large table, but having the Emperor's will invoked was a hard thing to counter, and the kid kept his nerve, looking down to his datapad as if it held his attention completely. With a twitch of a sneer and a narrowing of his gray eyes, the Grand Moff let the moment slide, and exited in silence. Vader too stood, and his angled mask tilted from the kid up to Indo.

"I heard mention recently of an incident at a reception in the Imperial palace," he ground in bass tones, "when a youth was heard to warn another that little fish should not try to swim with sharks." That massive form held silent for a heartbeat, the irregular angles of his mask reflecting harsh slices of light in the unrelentingly stark room. "Perhaps he should listen to his own advice."

He turned, wide cloak flaring as he left without looking back.

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Several times during the meeting Han had seen Indo, sitting beside him, shake his head infinitesimally, his frustration that Luke consistently refused to take charge obvious. Had Vader and Tarkin not been in the room, Han knew damn well that the Viscount would have been one pace behind the kid throughout, egging him on to take the initiative, pushing him to make that assessment and take control. So Han was expecting some kind of reaction when the meeting broke up; he wasn't disappointed. The door had barely closed before Indo set forward.

"Don't—do _not_ contact the Emperor on this."

Luke turned. "I can't—" he stopped himself. "It's not my decision to make."

"It's precisely that. You carry the Emperor's mandate—his confidence. Your word is his. He _expects_ you to make this decision. Luke," Indo paused, his demeanor that of someone searching to rein in his frustration while stating the glaringly obvious. "You _cannot_ allow a personal aversion to a mission to interfere with the execution of your duty. You have been sent here to take command."

"No, I was sent here to finish my mission regarding the stolen plans, deal with any fallout and put the matter to rest. Which is a little difficult now that Vader and Tarkin have handed the plans over to the Rebellion."

"You're avoiding the issue."

"And you're extending the mandate. I wasn't sent here to take control."

Indo stepped closer, tilting his head to look at the kid when he wouldn't meet Indo's eyes. "The mandate came from the Emperor himself. Your taking complete control here was implicit. There's…" Indo paused, standing level with the table where the kid's hand still rested on his datapad. "What's that?"

It was only when Han followed Indo's gaze that he noticed the edge of a sheet of flimsiplast under Luke's datapad. The kid didn't look down—but he kept his hand resting on the pad that covered it. "Nothing."

"Luke—" Indo's voice hardened.

"It's nothing."

"You brought it into a meeting, here?"

Luke finally looked to Indo, expression stony. "Stop. Just stop, now."

"You cannot divide your attention in the middle of…"

"I said stop." Indo tried to take the piece of flimsy, but the kid's hand remained pressed on the datapad, holding it firm beneath. "If you want to actually help, then go down to the fighter bays and ensure they've got two free cradles which can service Interceptors, and be ready to go over to the _Vendetta_ immediately when we revert to realspace, to make sure that my Interceptor is transferred to the Death Star."

"Interceptor?" Indo stared, the flimsiplast forgotten. "When we revert from lightspeed, your place will be on the bridge of the Death Star."

"I am _not_ commander of this battle station. I'm not going to be forced into a position where I take an unfamiliar and untried piece of hardware that I have little faith in, into battle. It's not worth the risk."

"The _risk_ is already present, at your own making. Luke, if you don't take control, you're relying on another's decisions when your abilities give you an edge that they simply do not have. You're also risking the Emperor's disapproval when he finds out that you sought to avoid the very situation that he sent you here to gain experience in." Again, Indo softened. "Luke, this is nothing you haven't done before, only the scale has changed."

The kid was silent for a long time, eyes down as his tense face flicked with half-hidden emotions. He didn't want to do this, Han could see that. Didn't want to be involved. And Han couldn't blame him; putting down an insurgent attack on a military base was one thing. This was entirely different.

Even Indo knew it—if for entirely different reasons. "This is your opportunity to step ahead. Palpatine said that your present authority could become permanent if you proved yourself worthy in this mission." The Viscount straightened, his tone solemn, tinged with reproach. "You know what he expects you to do…will you disappoint again?"

The kid pursed his lips and glanced aside, torn. His eyes almost came to Han, but he stopped, raising his chin. His quiet voice, when he spoke, was as much regret as it was resolve. "No. I won't."

Indo let his own head drop slightly in relief. "Then you'll authorize the action?"

"…Yes."

Still the Viscount didn't let up. Maybe he knew the kid too well. "Now?"

Luke straightened at that. "I'll authorize it when my Interceptor is in the bay, here."

"Your place is on the Bridge. It's not in a fighter, and it's not drawing doodles in a conference room whilst allowing some Grand Moff to dictate to you, when you should already be on that bridge, having taken command."

Again Indo tried to pull at the sheet of flimsy, and again the kid pressed his fingers against the datapad that was over it, stopping him from pulling it free.

"And your place is to do as you're instructed," he bit out. "I asked you to ensure that my Interceptor is transferred to the Death Star, and facilities are available. Please do so...or would you prefer me to make it an order?"

Indo took a step back, face hardening as his eyes narrowed. "Very well, Commander. I trust that whilst I am executing my duty, you shall do yours."

He held the kid's eyes for a second longer, then turned about and strode from the room.

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For long seconds Han stared in silence at the closed door, aware that the kid was doing the same. When he eventually turned to Luke, the kid rolled his head as he let out a breath. "Well that's gonna come back and bite me."

Han stared at the kid…and he just couldn't not ask. "Are you gonna give the order?"

Luke looked down, frowning, then slid his datapad back from the piece of flimsiplast, unbidden. Han glanced at the fine-lined sketch, quickly drawn, surprised that the kid would give up without hesitation what he'd so determinedly kept from Indo. "What's that?"

The kid sat back down, tilting his head as if studying it for the first time. "I don't know; a canyon…somewhere. Look familiar?"

Han stared; it was a landscape, which he'd never seen the kid draw ever before, of open plains edged by high canyon walls and sheer cliff faces. In the center of the image, the erosion had created two towering columns surmounted by a natural stone bridge, and underneath it a series of podracers were maneuvering through the limited space of the rock formation—at speed, judging by their angled engines. Luke picked up the stylus again and trailed it over the surface.

"This is sandstone, all of it, with striations in the stone. Looks like erosion, presumably by sand, since this is all desert." As he spoke he drew deeper lines into the strong shadows. "Bright light—very bright."

"You don't know what you drew?" Han asked, askance.

"I didn't draw it," the kid said thoughtfully. "I picked it out of Vader's head."

"Y…you took that out of Vader's head…in the meeting? Does he know?"

Luke turned to fix Han with a dry stare, before looking back to the sketch. "This is something familiar, something he knew. It's not just something he's seen, the memory was too sharp, too intense. He _knew_ this moment."

"You're actually trying to get us killed, aren't you? Why don't you just pop the guy in the nose and have done with it."

"Because I can't see his nose…and this way's more fun."

"You're a weird kid, you know that? Why can't you…" Han paused as a stray thought clicked. "Moisture farmers."

"What?"

"Moisture farmers, remember? Vader said it about the Rebel pilot. Something about moisture farmers and desert planets."

"Desert planets—Darklighter! Where was he from?"

Luke pulled his datapad back, but paused before activating it. "I can't use this—I have to get the information quietly and the pad'll connect to the Death Star's main hub."

"Why is it important?" Han asked.

Luke chewed his nail as he considered, ignoring the question entirely. "I don't know the system or security set-up they have here, so it would take time to get round it. I could use Hand codes to bypass it, but they register on Coruscant." He straightened. "The _Vendetta_! She'll be alongside in a few hours!"

"Seriously, why do you want to know?"

This time the kid looked down, uncomfortable for a moment. "Know your enemies," he said at last.

Except Vader shouldn't be one, of course, Han knew. Which left the burning question—why? Why was he?

Han glanced to the half-healed scar over the kid's eye, suture lines still visible. Its smooth, dark crescent described exactly the cowl of Vader's saber hilt, from when he'd caught the kid a heavy blow barely an inch above his eye. You had to wonder what would make someone willing to do that to a kid… It occurred to him only now that Luke, growing up with that constant, undisguised and unrepentant threat, sure as hell had to be looking for some kind of explanation.

Han sat, and slid the flimsiplast over to study it again, more carefully this time.

"Well, these are podracers," he said at last. "They only race 'em in a few places, and this looks like a race. I guess we could start there."

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Han was with Luke in Ops 3 when the Death Star came out of hyperspace with a jolt, the Yavin System's many planets spattering into view about the gas giant itself. The kid glanced up only once then turned away, continuing his scan of the log reports from the various officers and non-coms who had been on duty and caught up in the escape of Kenobi and the Rebels; the second night running now. He hadn't said anything to anyone, even Han, but it was obvious that he was fascinated with Kenobi's appearance here. Couldn't blame him, Han supposed. In sixteen years, this was the closest the kid had come to his own father…aside from the time Kenobi had tried to kill him.

It was just a few hours to midnight, Coruscant time—which the Imperial fleet ran on wherever it was—and Indo had left word that he was to be contacted when the Death Star came out of hyperspace. Han was in no hurry, so instead walked forward to the wide viewscreen, more for something to do than anything else.

After a few minutes the kid looked up again, staring at Yavin. "Why aren't we under power?"

The usual barely discernable rumble of any ship under power was undetectable on the Death Star by dint of its sheer mass, Han supposed. So instead, he turned his attention to the massive gas giant, which appeared to be coming no closer. "I dunno. Which moon were we headed for?"

"Fourth."

"Well unless we're actually parked on top of it, we're not gettin' any nearer."

Luke abandoned his reading to flick on the comm, keying for the bridge. "This is Commander Antilles. Locate Grand Moff Tarkin for me."

"He's on the Bridge, sir."

There was a long pause, before the kid glanced up to roll his eyes at Han, exasperated. "Well then bring him to the comm."

To Han, Tarkin's voice was the same mix of barely controlled antagonism and forced indulgence that Luke's face was.

"Commander Antilles."

"We seem to be stationary, Moff Tarkin."

Han didn't miss the kid's omission of Tarkin's full title.

"We've stopped clear of the gas giant's influence. Yavin Four's orbit will bring it into range within fifteen…"

"In range?"

"… Yes." The voice dripped dry patience.

"Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but I was under the impression that this station had its own sublight maneuvering thrust system. Perhaps it's offline?"

Tarkin ignored the snide snipe. "The Rebel moon's planetary orbit will place it in range shortly."

"Do we need to conserve power? I understand you were having numerous…teething problems with the superlaser's avid power consumption."

Han glanced down; he had to hand it to the kid, he sure knew how to throw a sideways slur to get someone's ire up.

Tarkin's voice was starting to tighten. "The superlaser is already at full power."

"Then there's presumably some other reason why the Rebel moon is still in existence?"

"Calculations are underway to assess the mass of the moon's core in order to attain optimum firing position and focus the beam. I see no reason for us to reach the moon before we're able to fire on it."

"No reason to ensure that any capital ships in orbit don't begin evacuating now, since you've very considerately given them advance notice that we're in the system?" Luke asked dryly. "Or that they don't muster up an attack force, since they know we're coming…albeit very slowly."

"Nothing they have down there—or anywhere else, for that matter—has the slightest ability to inflict any lasting damage on a structure of this size."

"I'm sure that's what the captain of the _Intrepid_ said a few weeks ago…just before it had the distinction of becoming the first ever Star Destroyer to be obliterated in a frontal assault by Rebel snub-nose fighters."

"I was under the impression that you had abstained from exercising your option to direct this mission, Commander Antilles."

"I didn't abstain from pointing out the glaringly obvious, Moff Tarkin," Luke parried, glancing briefly up to Han to raise his eyebrows in amusement, having gone past actually needing to clarify anything, and clearly pushing for the hell of it now. "Like for instance, why you're waiting to take readings on the Rebel moon, when you could just as easily take a reading on the gas giant right in front of you and remove it instead."

"It seems that you're not up to date with the station's technical spec, Commander. If you were, you'd know that the superlaser is of sufficient power that it can be fired once in any twenty-four hour cycle."

"I did read that…in fact, I read it twice, because I couldn't quite believe it. Glaring flaws aside, the knock-on effects of destroying the gas giant would also effectively raze any orbiting bodies…including the fourth moon. Save all this waiting around," Luke added sardonically.

The line fell silent for long seconds.

"Cold feet all of a sudden?" Luke asked. "That's not like you, Tarkin."

"In point of fact there are three habitable moons in the Yavin System, and the Rebel base inhabits only one. Destroying the gas giant and thus all of its twenty-six moons seems…excessive."

"I thought excessive was what the Death Star did."

"You confuse excessive with effective."

Luke smiled thinly. "No, I really don't—and it leaves me feeling somewhat in the minority here."

Tarkin didn't rise to the bait. "You seem to have gained your nerve somewhat since our last meeting. Am I to assume you have spoken with the Emperor?"

"No…" The kid glanced down, his composure cracking just slightly. "No, I'll make the decision unilaterally."

"And your decision is to fire on the gas giant?"

"No, I'm simply clarifying the ramifications of our actions. I wonder whether your astrophysicists will be including in their calculations a breakdown of the knock-on effects of simply _removing_ one moon from a system as congested as Yavin? Because the laws of physics dictate that removing one moon will juggle the inter-reliant orbits of any close planets around sufficiently that they're either going to develop instabilities or have any atmosphere they hold ripped away…that is, if they're not dragged out of their existing orbits altogether. If I authorize the destruction of Yavin Four, you're effectively asking me to authorize the destruction of most of the moons orbiting Yavin anyway." Luke gave another dry smile, too worldly to his young face. "But then I guess we're right back at the excessive versus effective argument."

"First you suggest destroying the gas giant, and now you're worried about collateral damage," Tarkin said coolly.

"Perhaps I simply like to make an informed decision," Luke countered.

"Ah, then you will eventually make one? I ask because the Death Star will be in firing range of Yavin Four within minutes."

"I'll come down to the bridge."

"There's really no need," Tarkin ground out.

In the background, an unknown officer spoke out. "Sir, preliminary scans detect multiple power surges; the Rebels are launching ships from the surface of Yavin Four."

Before Han, the kid's expression hardened. "I think there is," he said simply, and cut the comm.

Luke sat for a moment, staring at the deactivated comlink…and Han had to ask, because the fact was, he truly didn't know; "You wouldn't…" he hesitated, "You wouldn't actually do that—destroy the gas giant—would you?

Luke's eyes remained on the comlink for a moment as if Han hadn't spoken… Then suddenly, as if remembering his presence, Luke glanced up, grinning. "Seriously, you think I'd destroy an entire system to get to one bunch of miscreants who, at the rate we're going, will probably have left by the time we reach their base anyway?"

"What about the other stuff you said—the moons being knocked from their orbits if you destroy just one—is that true?"

The smile dropped slowly from the kid's face, and finally he looked away, studying the datapad before him.

"Luke?"

"It would depend how close their orbits are," the kid said quietly at last. "Orbiting bodies act under individually dictated gravitational influence imposed by the largest mass, which would be Yavin itself. But the combined effect of other orbiting bodies is always significant in a system of close orbital paths, particularly those with atmospheric stability. Debris alone in a system this congested would be a major problem."

It was neutrally spoken, like dictating from a text. Han stared… "Are you gonna give the order?"

Luke slouched forward in his chair to drop his head forwards until it rested on the surface, dragging his fingers through unruly hair until they clasped at the nape of his neck. "It makes no difference who gives the order. One way or another, it'll be given and Yavin Four destroyed. We're on an irreversible course, now. We're committed." He shook his head as he looked up to Han, as if to rally his own thoughts. "And we should be—they're the enemy. We should be prepared to use any means necessary to stop them."

"Like this?"

"Yes, like this!" The kid rose quickly, turning about to half-throw his chair back to the desk. "Why are you asking me? You think I have any say at all on what goes on here? You think I can stop it?" His voice was rising, his frustration obvious. "I'm nobody, you understand? I have no say, I have no power; this—all this supposed status that means so much to Indo—it's nothing. It's not real. If I say no, you know what happens? Tarkin contacts the Emperor, gets permission and fires his damn planet-killer anyway, Indo goes crazy and lectures me for a week straight, and eventually…eventually, I have to go back to face Palpatine, and explain my actions." The kid calmed, his voice quieting as his flare of temper drained to resignation. "And nothing will have changed—nothing. Yavin Four will still be gone, Keno…" Luke stopped, correcting himself. "The Rebels will still be dead, I'll still have been here to…to sense that. _Nothing_ will have changed…except that I'll be going back to face Palpatine, in the wrong, yet again."

Han stared at the brief slip, as realization of the kid's reluctance blared so clearly that he wanted to slap his own forehead. Kenobi. The kid's own father would be on Yavin when they fired this planet-killer. He dropped his head, shaking it slowly at this huge, hells-bound mess.

"It shouldn't matter," Luke said quietly at last without looking. "It's immaterial."

For once, Han didn't chide the kid for reading his thoughts. Because in one word, he'd let slip his reluctance in all of this: _shouldn't_—it shouldn't matter. Not didn't; shouldn't.

Which meant that it did.

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Luke straightened, squaring his jaw as he set off out of the room without looking to Han. "Let's get this over with."

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The command bridge was darkened and at battle-ready status when they arrived, the gaunt, hatchet-faced Tarkin already standing in the center of the big room, hands behind his back, eyes on the main, lozenge-shaped screen, which had calculations displayed in wire-frame over an external view of the Yavin system. Beside him, turning slowly about, the hulking form of Darth Vader emanated menace simply by being there.

It was the first time that either Han or the kid had entered the bridge, but Luke strode to the center of the room with a confidence that Han knew damn well he didn't feel. Aware of the curious glances of the multiple officers who manned consoles about te periphery of the wide space, Han slowed to a stop well back from the main floor, glancing about the room. Twice the size of a Star Destroyer's bridge, dark plates of plasteel were angled in towards roof level, occasionally set with floor to ceiling banks of elongated oval lights which shone their semi-shuttered glow into the gloom of the room.

The standard five consoles were arrayed on raised platforms about the room, their sectioned arrays facing inwards to the center of the room, set with multiple controls that Han didn't even recognize. The officers who stood at their consoles held hooded eyes on the kid, leaving Han to wonder what scuttlebutt had already made the rounds in the officers' mess about the appearance of a Ubiqtorate officer onboard. Luke stopped to the far side of Tarkin but even so, his slight frame was dwarfed by Vader's bulk—though as ever, he wasn't letting it faze him. Instead he turned to tactical, all business.

"What are they sending up?"

The officer glanced briefly to Tarkin, who nodded; Tarkin definitely manned his new command with officers he knew he could trust, then.

"They're sending snub-nose fighters, sir."

Luke stared for a second. When the man said nothing more, Luke prompted, "What else do they have in-system?"

"We've detected three small frigates and a number of smaller freight transports in-system, but none have come out to engage us."

Again the man had glanced to Tarkin, his reluctance obvious—in fact Han was surprised the kid let it pass. Instead, Luke turned back to the viewscreen, looking to Yavin.

"How many snubs?"

"Six squadrons, sir; seventy-two X-wings, plus two squadrons of Y-wings."

"That's it?"

"It's hardly surprising," Tarkin dismissed. "Intelligence informs us that the Rebels are low on snub-nose fighters."

Luke turned. "Because?"

"I thought you would have read the briefings," Tarkin dug discretely. "They're logged on the station's main information hub. A large percentage of the Rebellion's snub-nose fighters were destroyed when the Rebel Destroyer _Fortressa_ attacked the Death Star. It was the station's first true battle, and a resounding victory. The _Fortressa_ was destroyed by a single blast of the superlaser at just four percent power, and most of the small fighters picked off in combat."

"So you're telling me that your own defensive force allowed a hostile capital ship to get within two thousand clicks of the Death Star, and were subsequently so slow to respond that the Rebel ship had enough time to launch multiple fighter wings?" Luke parried smoothly.

Tarkin loosed a death's head smile. "As ever, you miss the point. I'm telling you that our first engagement was also our first victory."

"In a battle that shouldn't have taken place. Your first engagement was due to the failure of existing forces under your command, to defend a key asset."

"It was also proof that we don't need any protection. This battle station makes all existing models of warfare obsolete."

"You're posturing, Tarkin, and you have no audience here. Careful your ego doesn't make statements your technology can't deliver.

Vader turned to regard the kid, the tilt in that angled helmet betraying…interest, Han supposed; it was difficult to tell. But the kid's words had caught his attention, that much was obvious.

Tarkin straightened, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you say to the Emperor about me?"

"I don't say anything to the Emperor about you…or this. He forms his own opinions." Luke paused strategically. "But if it was even half as high as your own, I wouldn't be here."

From the engineering console a helmeted officer spoke up, his comment obviously aimed at Tarkin. "Sir, final calculations are complete; we're approximately nine minutes from optimum firing position."

"Pass the co-ordinates to helm, and bring us into position." Tarkin looked expectantly to Luke, and Han knew what he was waiting for.

"We will be ready to fire on the Rebel base in minutes. I believe that we are required to…come to a mutual decision to fire the primary weapon. Lord Vader and I are in agreement. Your decision is now necessary."

Han narrowed his eyes, aware that Tarkin was using some pretty fancy words to dance around the fact that he had, in effect, to ask the kid's permission to fire. His inclusion of Vader's consent also left Han wondering if Tarkin was doing exactly as the kid had said he would, and working hard to make sure that if anything went wrong, it wasn't his head on the block. Han moved, uneasy; was the politically savvy old man equally willing to use Luke?

The kid stared at the blue-green orb of Yavin Four as the silence stretched. When he finally spoke, it wasn't what Han—or anyone else, he suspected—had expected to hear.

"Why snub-noses? They have Frigates in orbit—why not use them?"

Tarkin turned a fraction, his exasperation obvious in his dismissal of the incoming fighters. "Perhaps they use snubs to cover their backs and buy them time whilst they load the transports ships for escape—for all the good it will do them.

Luke half-turned to the tactical console. "Take the primary weapon computations off the main screen and pull up external data displays." He took a step forward to stare intently at the main screen as the readouts changed, a wireframe of the Death Star and the incoming snub-nose fighters replacing the calculations to destroy the Rebel moon. "They wouldn't do it if they thought it was pointless—they know they're not about to slow us down and they need the manpower at their base if they're trying to withdraw. This is an organized attack to a pre-arranged plan—they have something."

Vader too turned to the screen to study the placement of the incoming fighters. Tarkin was less interested. "This is immaterial. The fighters have no consequence on the upcoming action."

"If the Death Star is so very invincible, then waiting to fire for one more minute will make no difference to the battle's outcome." Luke turned to the tactical officer. "Analyze the incoming ships' courses, look for a projected target or strategy."

The officer again glanced to Tarkin for permission, and this time Luke rounded on him, incensed. "Don't look at him! When I give you an order you obey it!"

The man staggered as if half-pushed, half-dragged violently forward by some invisible force, thrown against his console with sufficient strength that he was forced to catch himself with the flat of his hands against it, gasping for breath—and Han knew what the kid had done.

"Do you understand?" Luke yelled as he turned about, words addressed to everybody there, any trace of the reserved youth who had walked so quietly onto the bridge a few moments ago, gone. The man who glared with open fury at them now was absolutely in control, his presence filling the vast room, no less than total obedience acceptable. "If I give an order you obey it immediately, do I make myself clear? Answer!"

A few of the officers looked to Tarkin, but when he didn't dispute the Ubiqtorate officer's demand, they acquiesced, and a murmur of uneasy confirmation travelled around the bridge as Luke looked about, eyes skipping from face to face, clearly looking for any trace of dissent. Everyone glanced down and remained silent before this unexpected explosion, only Vader still staring at the kid. Luke's eyes came briefly to Han's, and he held his gaze for only a second before he looked back to the still-gasping officer at tactics.

When he spoke, the kid's voice was absolutely calm again, no trace of his previous outburst audible. "Analyze the data. Give me the result as soon as you have it."

Heads lifted all around him as he turned back to the wide viewport, everyone momentarily lost before this mercurial change, unsure what to do. It was Tarkin himslef who rallied his officers, a mix of his position and his nerve probably making him feel less threatened than others present.

"Helm, continue to firing position. Ops, I want the status updates on the main cannon in conjunction with that. Tactical, analyze the data and charge up all guns for the relevant hemisphere—and get an arrival time for the incoming snubs."

The officers rushed to comply with the flurry of orders, normality restoring itself with the quiet fulfilling of orders issued. It was brittle though, as everyone glanced repeatedly to the slight young man who stood alone before the viewscreen, head to one side as if in consideration, mild and reserved as he had been just minutes before, as if nothing at all had happened. He had, Han supposed, instantly and efficiently dispelled the assumption of everyone there that he was just some naive kid who could be dismissed, overriden, undermined, or just plain ignored. Everywhere he went the kid had to do it to some degree, the same fight for recognition and respect, and Han was beginning to realize that his method was usually equal to the gravity of the situation. This one had been incendiary.

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The uncomfortable silence remained for long minutes in which even Han was aware of getting a few wary glances, as if those about him suspected that if they stared too long at the man in the black Ubiqtorate uniform, their actions would be noted and duly reported.

The narrow-faced Tarkin still stood a few steps behind the kid, staring at his back with sufficient heat that Luke had to have known, Sith or not. Still, the shrewd Moff had been smart enough not to let himself get involved in that brief but explosive show of authority that Luke had doled out.

Uneasy, Han twitched his lips as he glanced about, aware that the kid's brittleness was based on his desire not to have been mixed up in all of this in the first place. Was it because of Kenobi's unanticipated presence, or was it simply that he didn't want to become the fall-guy here? Or was it a genuine moral dilemma? Because a few minutes ago, in private, the kid had been all but desperate to shuck this responsibility.

Han straightened; was that what this was all about? Was that the real reason why Palpatine had put the kid in this impossible position? Because as much as Luke did as commanded, he was still privately squeamish about killing—even Han could see that. Had the conniving old man effectively placed him in a position where he'd become a mass-murderer overnight?

Han stared, ill at ease; sufficiently so that it brought Luke's gaze about—just as an officer walked forward to murmur something in Tarkin's ear.

Luke turned on the man without hesitation. "Don't whisper to him! If you have something to say, say it aloud."

The man turned, alarmed. "We…we've analyzed their attack, sir, and it seems to be centered around a trench on the equatorial axis. The only item of interest there would be a thermal exhaust port for the main reactor, but the area is shielded."

As Luke stepped in Vader also turned, so that both of them said the same thing in the same moment.

"Shielded how?"

The officer glanced to Vader, but aimed his reply to Luke.

"Standard heavy-laser and ion-fire dissipation, sir, with ray-shielding against small laser fire."

"They're patently not trying to use heavy capital-ship fire," Luke said. "If they're using snubs, it's for a reason…why?"

The man looked at a loss, and Luke walked briskly back to step onto the raised tactical console platform as the nervous officer there backed up rapidly to allow Luke to study the screens.

Han moved closer round the edge of the darkened room, remembering the kid's claim of long ago that the Death Star had shields tiling ninety-seven percent of its surface. That meant it'd stop any big ship in its tracks, but… "Snubs could maneuver in under the station's shields if they could account for shear, I'm guessing?"

"But what do they have the firepower to do once they're here?" Luke asked. "Standard snub fire would cause minimal surface damage—at the angle they're flying once they're under the shields, it wouldn't penetrate more than a level or two. Anything dropped above the projectile shields would be atomized on contact… The only ordnance snubs can carry which would cause any kind of damage if they managed to get under the shields would be guided missiles… Missiles!" He glanced to Han.

"Torpedoes," Han realized. "They're carrying torpedoes!"

Luke glanced to the Ops Officer. "What's the shielding on that exhaust port?

The man frowned. "Sir?"

"The reactor exhaust port—could its shields repel a torpedo?"

The man stepped forward to key in his display. "Sir, shielding is wave-scatter and magnetic pulse, but…it's insufficiently shielded for self-powered proton torpedoes. But they'd have to make a direct hit from a narrow angle—even a partial degree either side would impact close to the surface as the torpedo's drive system tried to correct."

Luke jumped down from the tactical console and started towards Ops. "How deep does the shaft go without deviation—if they got a torpedo down there, how far would it penetrate?"

The man was already skimming through plans as Luke stepped onto the platform. "Sir, it goes directly into the main reactor."

Luke looked to Han. "So the reactor's vulnerable…"

"To torpedoes launched by snub-nose craft, flying underneath the projectile shields!" Han finished. "Could they even make that hit?"

Luke glanced back, finger pointing at the tactical officer. "What snubs are they flying?...Quickly!"

"Sir, I have ID's on multiple types…"

"Near the exhaust port trench."

"X- and Y-wings, sir."

"X's are at three clicks on their top speed," Han supplied. "Y's are slower—maybe two-point five."

Luke's eyes remained on tactical. "What's the refresh on the auto-targeting system of X- and Y-wings—if the snubs were forced to fly fast enough to outrun our trench guns, would their targeting system still be able to make the shot into the exhaust port?"

"Running sims now, sir."

"Don't bother—that's what they're trying for."

Vader stepped forward. "Ops, double the TIE units launched—inform them what they're dealing with. And have the flight bay ready my fighter."

Tarkin too turned, speaking quickly. "Have every third clutch of guns along the trench manned by hand; they're less predictable than the auto-fire systems." Still, when he looked to Luke, Tarkin's voice had lost none of its supreme confidence. "A precaution; they won't achieve their assault, the strategy is patently unviable. This station is invulnerable."

Whether Vader agreed or not, he'd already turned to stride from the room. Setting off from its far side, Luke was barely a step behind him. Han crossed the deck at a flat run.

"Commander Antilles!" As they passed the center of the room Tarkin reached out, and Han knew the Grand Moff was intending to take hold of the kid's arm—and he knew damn well what would happen if he did.

He picked up his pace a step to put his body between Luke and Tarkin, hand out to push Tarkin's outstretched arm away. Han could only guess what was going through the Grand Moff's mind as Tarkin's eyes came instantly to him, outraged. What was Han supposed to say? He looked like some kind of over-zealous minder, not allowing anyone near the kid when he'd so clearly illustrated to everyone present just what he was capable of, minutes earlier.

It was Luke who broke the moment, his words bringing Tarkin's fuming eyes from Han. "What—quickly?"

"You have yet to give your decision on the discharge of the primary weapon."

The kid stared for long seconds, the tension visible in his face… "Fire the weapon. You have authorization to destroy Yavin Four."

Han looked quickly to Luke, but he was already moving off. Glancing just once back to Tarkin, whose stare held the kind of open animosity that promised Han his actions weren't forgotten and repercussions were on the way, Han turned about and followed him.

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In the turbolift, Luke took his comlink out to key a frequency. Han recognized the voice instantly as Indo replied, still cool from his spat with the kid.

"Yes?"

"Indo, where are you? Tell me my two Interceptors are in a TIE bay, here?"

"I have already voiced my opinion on this. If you want to ruin your own—"

"They've found a vulnerability in the Death Star—a critical one, that can be triggered by snub-nose fighters. We have to go out and destroy them ship to ship."

"Then let others do that. Your place…"

"My place is to stop that happening. Tarkin's experience is on the bridge of the station he knows inside out—to disrupt that now is counterproductive and you know it. Let him do what he does best, and let me do the same. Indo…" Luke fell to exasperated silence.

The line was quiet for long moments, then, "Your two Interceptors are onboard the Death Star, in TIE bay nine. I came across to the _Vendetta_ an hour ago to arrange the transfer."

Han was already keying the turbolift with its new destination.

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To be continued…..

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	18. Chapter 18

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**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

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Vader was well clear of docking bay four when his scopes picked up the TIE Interceptor batting out of bay nine ahead of him. Knowing that Kenobi's son flew an Interceptor he reached out with the Force to establish that fact, but as ever, the youth kept his presence tightly concealed; the Interceptor may as well have been flown by a drone. But then that in itself was information enough for Vader to open a private channel and bark a brief command.

"Go back."

There was a brief click as the boy joined the private channel to reply. "Stop using comms for irrelevant chatter."

Vader seethed, a snarl audible in his voice. "Go back! Your position here is as operations chief—you should not have left the Death Star bridge. Your duty—_scissor!"_

Antilles' craft was already moving in the moment that Vader snapped the last, so that even to his veteran eye, his Advanced TIE and the youth's Interceptor scissored in faultless unison, like a single thought divided.

As a perfect mirror-image both TIEs corkscrewed about the incoming Rebel X-wings' flight paths, decelerating forward motion without sacrificing speed so that the four X-Wings shot past as Vader twisted up and Luke down, each briefly able to see the other through the faceted viewscreen set into the top of their cockpit canopies. As their quarry overshot, both TIEs opened fire, their corkscrew tightening again to lock all four snubs in an ever-reducing helix of overlapping fire.

Only the last X-Wing had the time to react and wrenched violently up and away, but in the same second both TIEs pulled out of their helix, the boy's TIE raking the X-wing in a tight line of fire which brought down its shields, so that Vader finished the job with a single shot and the snub fighter exploded in a bright cloud of superheated gas.

The two TIEs pulled away in perfect unison, Vader taking the arc slightly wider to drop a ship's length behind the boy. Scowling, he opened the comm again. "Go back to the Death Star."

"Make me."

Vader's eyes narrowed at the childish provocation as he glared at the Interceptor in front of him…then his chin came up a fraction as the thought occurred: he could take the shot—right now. The rest of the battle, a miasma of small fighters careening at breakneck speeds over the surface of the Death Star, melted away to an insignificant backdrop as Vader dropped tighter behind the TIE Interceptor.

He could take the shot and be done. It was a dogfight; they were chaotic and frenzied and messy, and any pilot was always at risk from friendly fire…

The boy must have realized that Vader had dropped from a wing to a kill position behind him, because his fighter turned into a loosely evasive downward spiral…and Vader followed, his finger resting lightly on the fire button.

"You're kidding me!" The boy's words came over Vader's comm as half-disbelief, half-dismissal as Vader vectored his fighter's thrust to match the inward curve, looking for that momentary lock.

Genuinely evasive now, the Interceptor ahead of him gave up a little more speed to find its tightest angle, leaving Vader to curse inwardly as his heftier Advanced reached its tolerance, unable to follow.

"What's wrong," the voice dug, "too much brawn and not enough refinement?"

The boy didn't say it; didn't accuse Vader's whole life of being that…but Vader heard it in the tone of his voice. Yanking at his stick he pulled out of the spiral and into a vertical climb, turning an inverted loop above the Interceptor which gave him the added distance to match its tight turn without leaving the arena…and watched to judge his moment. With pinpoint precision, Vader brought his TIE's nose down to drop towards the Interceptor, having matched its tight angle of turn within his high arc to put it in his sights once again.

Again the boy's voice came over the comm, though this time despite the goading tone, it had a tense edge to it. "You're actually serious, aren't you?"

Vader remained grimly silent, seconds from firing range as he dropped down from his high angle. With no other recourse, the boy should have surrendered more speed to drop into another spiral, the course of which Vader was already anticipating…

Instead he vectored his engines to drag his Interceptor into a wildly skewing half-roll which brought his nose upwards towards his aggressor in a near ninety-degree course change, then rolled from near-stall into a scissor-helix, climbing vertically towards Vader. It was impressive flying, tight and aggressive, and unexpected enough that Vader was forced to yank his own fighter into a tight spiral to avoid becoming the target in this sudden game of dare.

For a split-second each craft had the other almost in their sights head-on as they corkscrewed forwards, each pushing for a target-lock without themselves being targeted…then they shot past in a blur, neither having fired. Vader let out a grunt of frustration and yanked his TIE's yoke about as the boy's voice came over the comm.

"Oh, so close!"

He had no idea if Antilles was talking of his own near-lock or admitting Vader's, but there was something else there too—he heard it quite distinctly…and in recognizing it in the boy's voice, he realized the same in himself. It was enjoyment. Not in anticipation of a kill, but at the simpler satisfaction of finding a worthy opponent who could match him move for move, reaction times honed beyond the physical. As both craft vectored thrust to pull rolling half-loops which would bring them back into range of the other it became, for just a moment, a dare, a challenge, a game of high stakes which left Vader wondering at what point the growl on his lips had become a grin.

As he accelerated, rolling to bring his canopy upright after the half-loop, a second TIE Interceptor skimmed in at full thrust to port, passing through the closing gap and taking Vader's eye, knowledge of its pilot bringing the…what? game? opportunity? Whatever it was, Solo's appearance brought the moment to an end. Antilles knew it too, continuing his loop through three hundred degrees to turn him towards the ongoing battle, the comm channel they had shared cutting abruptly to static as the boy probably answered Solo's anxious hail. Vader slowed his own TIE to watch them accelerate towards the all but forgotten battle as he stared, eyes narrowed in consideration, uncertain how to classify the brief minute or so, the nearest to a commonality that he and Kenobi's son had ever come…

Then he shook his head, flicking his comm channel to hail his own wingmen, already in the fray. Altering his course and ordering them to follow, Vader laid in a new trajectory, heading towards the equatorial trench.

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Dropping in behind Luke's already accelerating Interceptor, Han cursed again at the kid's willingness to simply bat out of the hangar and into the fight without waiting for his wingman. If he'd've been in any standard TIE flight, he would have gotten a serious dressing down for it. Here, today…well even Han wouldn't have predicted that one.

He flicked on a comm channel. "Did I just see what I think I saw?"

"No," Luke said flatly.

"Really?" Han asked dubiously. "Cos it sure as hell looked like…"

"Nothing," the kid said quickly. "It was nothing. Do you have the equatorial trench on your nav-screen?"

Han glanced at the ongoing skirmishes, still in full throw about him. "What about the dogfights?"

"Leave the regulars to deal with them. Our fight's at the trench."

They were at full throttle now, the irregular surface of the Death Star a mottled grey blur beneath them. Within seconds, the tiny dots buzzing like angry flies in the distance resolved into enemy snub-nose fighters—perhaps a few dozen, with near free reign over this section. Only a few TIEs were in pursuit, though the Death Star's heavy turbo-lasers, bristling to either side of the equatorial trench, were firing from the surface. Most of the fighters were in two-ship elements, making long strafing runs across the surface in an effort to take out the ground emplacements.

They were in the fight within seconds, just as an X-wing screamed overhead with a TIE close on its tail. Han watched as the TIE dropped to a perfect kill position and took the X-wing out with two precise shots, then himself exploded into a fiery ball as another X-wing slid in behind him in the pandemonium and took him out with all four laser cannon flaring.

Cursing, Han snapped his TIE over in a quick reversal to follow the X-wing, lining up for a shot. It juked and twisted, trying a barrel role that would have caused a normal TIE to overshoot, but Han's Interceptor was up to the task and he sat grimly on the pilot's tail, waiting for the shot. Again the snub fighter went evasive, trying a vertical split-S which dropped both fighters dangerously close to the Death Star's unforgiving surface before they climbed at near-stall in a tight spiral.

"Local ace, huh?" Han murmured quietly, noting the wing ID; it had a red marking with five dashes, which surprised him; he'd've thought it would have been the Group Leader.

On the climb-out he vectored his thrust and angled shields to wring that extra degree of turn and managed to clip Five's upper port wing, getting the satisfaction of seeing a flare light within its port engine as the ship lunged briefly but regained stable flight and tried another one-eighty roll and turn to shake him loose.

At the same time, Flight Command's voice cut across all channels. "TIE wings, this is Flight. We've broken the Rebel code and are transmitting on frequency nine-nine-six."

Han immediately flicked his own comlink to play it as a backtrack behind active TIE channels, and heard the voices of the snub pilots cut in.

"…_watch your back, fighter above you coming in."_

"_I'm hit but not bad. Artoo, see what you can do. Hang on back there."_

Han pursed his lips; that was his mark—the X-wing he'd just clipped! A woman's voice, tight and tense.

Another voice, rushed and anxious:_ "Red Six, do you see Red Five?"_

"Yeah," Han growled to himself. "She's about three seconds from my crosshairs." Juking his stick, he fired, but the shots went low by a few degrees as the X-wing shimmied.

"_There's a heavy fire zone this side."_

"_Red Five, where are you?"_

"_I can't shake him!"_

"Damn straight," Han murmured, eyes fixed on his target as they weaved.

"_I'm on him. Hold on."_

"_Blast it, Biggs, where are you?"_

Han glanced around, realizing that he was about to be in someone else's sights, eyes on the heads-up display in his helmet visor for the position of his attacker…

He came from exactly the last place Han would have looked. The X-wing streaking away form him dipped abruptly as another fighter came in _towards_ Han on exactly the same course. Han slewed wildly, throwing the Interceptor into an inverted looping reversal as the X-wing closed, guns blazing—

A spang of green shots from one side lanced across Han's vision as Luke's TIE came in from a high angle, firing all six guns in brief succession and causing the X-wing to give up on his certain kill and roll away into a wide split-S as his shields flared.

Breathing again, Han keyed his comm. "Thanks—great timing."

"Much like your friend in the X-wing," the kid's voice came back.

"Yeah, that guy's mine." Han glanced about, fully intended to follow through on that threat first chance he got, despite the amusement in Luke's reply.

"I think that's what he was saying about you a moment ago."

"It's not who says it first that counts, kid. It's who says it last."

"_Red Leader, this is Gold Leader. We're starting our attack run."_

Han glanced about, trying to pin down the speaker as he and the kid dropped automatically to the surface, aileron-turning as he went. "There—the Y-wings!"

Both TIEs pulled out of their dive and levelled in tight formation, though the kid didn't drop into the trench. "Wait, stay high."

They held position above and behind the three Y-wings who'd dropped down into the trench. A stray shot from an X-wing caused the kid to juke briefly, but he didn't change course. On Han's scopes, three friendlies dropped with military precision on the X-wing responsible, and its signal flashed out of existence under intense fire, the flare of its demise already behind Han. To the edge of his vision he saw the TIE who had taken out the Rebel snub as it snap-rolled towards another target, two wingmen in tow: Vader.

Han could have sworn that when he'd exited the hangar, Vader and the kid were actually in a head-on helix roll…and the only reason you ended up like that was as a last-ditch attempt to take out an attacker.

So why exactly had Vader just shot a bogey off the kid's back?

Probably not a good time to start quizzing him about that. Luke was still maintaining his line above the trench that the three Y-wings were hurtling down to line up for a bombing run, despite every gun in the trench loosing a hail of defensive fire.

"Drop down and take the shot," Han shouted, aware that they were starting to attract the attention of other Rebel snubs, and Vader and his wingmen were elsewhere.

"Wait," the kid said again.

The first ranging shot from one of the distant Y-wings zipped past Han's TIE, close enough to spang against his shields. "Take the damn shot!"

"Wait! They'll have to slow to get a target lock," the kid said. "Stay in their blind spot and wait."

Another shot came closer as Han juked in avoidance. "Well then get in the damn trench. We're target practice up here."

"We're sitting slugs in that trench—there's no room to maneuver. They'll find that out themselves, soon enough." As he finished the last, Han heard the comm pip as the kid changed channels. "Flight, this is I-One. Shut down the guns south of five-twenty, we're going into the trench."

The Rebel pilot's voice was loud in Han's ear as the TIE channels momentarily fell silent.

"_Computer's locked, getting a signal… The guns, they've stopped."_

"_Stabilize your rear deflectors," _a seasoned voice advised._ "Watch for enemy fighters."_

The kid shucked speed and dropped into the trench so suddenly that Han nearly overshot before realizing why; travelling at full throttle to avoid the trench guns, the Y-wings had now been forced to slow so that they could change that exhaust shaft's location lock into an actual target lock for the torpedoes.

It was only now, as their two TIEs dropped neatly into the trench behind the Y-wings, that Han realized just how little maneuvering room there really was down here. One second's lapse at this speed and even without enemy fire, you were a dark smudge on the trench wall.

"_They're coming in. Two marks at two-ten!"_

Ahead of Han the kid loosed off just two shots…and the ship of the pilot who'd just barked the warning dissipated in an explosive blaze. Both TIEs made loose rolling weaves to avoid the debris before dropping instantly onto the Rebel snubs' tails again, their voices over the broken comm charged with panic.

"_It's no good, I can't maneuver!"_

"_Stay on target."_ That older voice again.

"_We're too close!"_

"_Stay on target."_

"_Loosen up!"_

Ahead of him, the kid did exactly as Han would have done in the limited space: he sat on the second Y-wing's tail and waited—because the end of the trench was in sight, and if the lead Y-wing wanted to try for that shot, he'd have to fly straight for long enough that his fighter's missile targeting system could latch…

Han was starting to think that maybe the kid had left it too late to take out the wingman and get to the lead Y-wing, when the kid fired two shots. He was already pulling out of the trench by the time that Han realized that he'd been ignoring the wingman altogether, instead directly targeting around him for the lead bomber, whose fighter had just bloomed into a fiery ball.

The lone wingman pulled out just ahead of them, rolling in a vertical split-S to try to buy time, though with two TIEs on his tail, he must have known that he was only delaying the inevitable.

"_Gold Five to Red Leader." _It was the seasoned pilot who'd first warned to watch for enemy fighters._ "Lost Tyree, lost Hutch..." _

Ahead of Han, Luke's TIE made a corkscrew reversal to drop speed as his voice came over the comm. "You should probably shut him up."

Han didn't need telling twice. He took the lead and rolled to bring the Y-wing into his scopes as the kid dropped in neatly at his wing…

"_They came in from behind…"_

Three shots zeroed the targeting in, and the Y-wing flared as it came apart, its massive engines still firing as they powered down to impact on the Death Star's surface.

With the kid content to sit as wingman for a moment, Han took a second to orient himself as they took a wide arc back into the action. Rebel craft were thinning under the combined pressure of Vader and the surface guns, and the remaining X-wings had split into two groups, the first of which was already dropping down to line up on the trench for their own bombing run.

Han glanced about, looking for Vader, but it was only when he highlighted friendlies on his helmet display that he detected the TIE Advanced and his two wingmen, travelling so close to the surface that they flicked in and out of interference, their dull grey finish rendering them near-invisible to the naked eye.

"_This is it!" _The lead X-wing dropped into the trench, and Han knew from their angle that Vader was intending to skim the top of the trench a good distance back as Luke had done.

Another worried voice came over the Rebels' frequency.

"_We should be able to see it by now."_

"_Keep your eyes open for those fighters."_

"_There's too much interference. Red Five, can you see them where you are?"_

The foremost of the three higher X-wings tipped itself almost sideways to improve its pilot's view. _"No sign of any…wait; coming in at point three-five!"_

"That's her," Han yelled. "That's Red Five, who almost got me killed!"

"_I'm in range," _the lead trench pilot said distractedly. "_Just hold them off for a few seconds."_

_"_Vader's voice, bass and grim, cut over the Rebel's frequency as he dropped into the trench. "Close up formation."

"_Red Leader, this is Red Five."_ The woman's voice again, crisply professional. "_You have spooks on your tail, three marks at your two-ten. We're making a run—hold on."_

The three high X-wings rolled into aileron turns, then Five dropped height rapidly from a high loop, vectoring the thrust of her X-wing's engines to tighten the loop and control its descent with split-second accuracy. It was the kind of maneuver that required pinpoint precision, but if they got it right—and it was clear that the lead X-wing, that damn Red Five, was the one making the calls on timing—it would bring them down straight over Vader's TIE with nowhere for him to hide and no effective cut-out.

And it was gonna be that accurate. Han could see it, as Red Five started her descent.

He feathered his own TIE down in a slewing scissor, holding back in judgement…

"Go—go!" Luke's TIE was beside him as the kid shouted out, accelerating at breakneck speed to line up on the dropping X-wings as they made their strafing run on Vader's fighter. Han too had kicked his Interceptor into high thrust, and the two came in with guns blazing, on a perfect line for the X-wings. Luke pulled a fraction of a degree starboard to rake a line of fire that spanged across the shields of the two wingmen as Han put everything into closing his gap with the lead X-wing, knowing he was a split-second too late.

It was enough though; he got three solid hits on Five's shields, and she turned away in a fast snap-reversal and pulled almost vertically up, her four shots which would have impacted on Vader's TIE with sufficient proximity to bring him down instead lighting his shields in a bright glow as Vader veered wildly in an avoidance that would have been too late.

Han overshot into clear space with the kid a fraction of a second behind him, both already looking to the sky around themselves as they pulled a tight split-S to bring them back into the battle. This time it was Han who took the wider line, letting the kid take the lead.

"I figure you should lead a while," Han said uneasily. "I wasn't entirely sure who I should have been shooting at back there, anyway."

"Yeah, congratulations on that," the kid deadpanned without animosity. "You just saved Vader's hide."

Far below the bright flare of the rear X-wing in the trench, still under Vader's guns, brought Han's gaze back down. "Doesn't seem to have put his aim off any."

A second later there was the larger flare of a double-explosion partly hidden by the trench, and for a fraught second Han thought the Rebels had actually made the strike…but he still had their cracked comms playing out beneath the Imp channels, and so heard the broken disappointment in Red Leader's voice at shouts of hope from his own pilots.

"_Negative—negative, it just impacted on the surface."_

"_Red Leader, we're right above you." _Red Five again, already bringing her group—now the last three Rebel fighters—back into the fray. _"Turn to point oh-five, we'll cover for you."_

Vader was already out of the trench, homing in on the lone X-wing with deadly intent—and its pilot knew it.

"_Stay there, I just lost my starboard engine. Get set up for your attack run."_

.

By the time Han and Luke had pulled a wide arc to bring them back around to the trench, the final three X-wings had already descended.

"_Biggs, Wedge, let's close it up." _It was Red Five, her voice terse with determination. "_We're going in and we're going in full throttle. That ought to keep those fighters off our back."_

"_Right with you, boss."_

Turning in a half-loop to drop altitude in a power-dive just behind the kid, Han figured they'd slide into position behind them when, highlighted by the actinic flash of the trench guns, Vader and his two wingmen shot by beneath, muscling in to take the run he and the kid had been lining up for.

"Son of a nerf!" Cursing, Han wrenched his TIE a little higher at the near-collision.

The kid sat right where he was, the lower edge of his wing dangerously close to the two TIE wingmen who followed Vader. "Let him take it. She almost took him out of the fight a minute ago."

The Rebel pilots chatted on, unaware of the altercation that was happening a few clicks off their tail. _"My scopes show the tower but I can't see the exhaust port. Are you sure the computer can hit it?"_

"_Watch yourself!" _the woman warned_. "Increase speed; full throttle."_

"_What about that tower?"_

"_You just worry about those fighters, I'll worry about the tower. Artoo, that…that stabilizer's broken loose again, see if you can lock it down."_

"_Fighters coming in at point three!"_

With the trench guns silenced, one of the Rebels had finally spotted the pack of five TIEs now on their tails, Vader and his wingmen a good few clicks ahead of Han and Luke, as the kid had pulled back slightly. Vader's guns flared briefly and the rear wingman—the one who'd just spoken—let out a gasp, his voice tightening.

"_I'm hit! I can't stay with you."_

"_Get clear, Wedge," _the woman allowed. _"You can't do any more good back there."_

"_Sorry."_

The unsteady X-wing made a rough exit from the trench, and Luke's TIE pulled smoothly up to drop in behind it, already targeting the faltering X-wing…

Vader's voice came grimly over the comm, a command to his own wingmen. "Let him go. Stay on the leader."

As Han pulled out of the trench to follow Luke, the second wingman could be heard below.

"_Hurry, Leia, they're coming in much faster this time. I can't hold them."_

Ahead of Han, Luke's TIE made a brief swerve, then corrected itself. Uncertain, Han clicked back to their private channel. "Luke, you okay?" No reply came, and Han scowled, aware that kid's TIE had slowed just slightly. "Luke, have you got a malfunction?"

"_Hurry up, Leia," _the Rebel wingman warned._ "Quick!"_

The brief flare which marked the wingman's demise seconds later lit the edge of Han's vision, though his attention was on Luke's Interceptor just ahead. Vader's ruthless confidence was audible on the open channel as he zeroed in on the final X-wing below. "I'm on the leader."

Luke's TIE had slowed further, his pursuit of the damaged wingman seemingly forgotten as he tilted his Interceptor to get a better view of the chase below, where the last X-wing was jinxing from side to side in the limited space, probably aware that her fate was already sealed…

A new voice cut in over the Rebel comm, old and somber, and full of quiet authority.

"_Leia, turn off your targeting computer."_

"_What?" _Red Five's voice, not surprisingly confused.

"_Turn off your targeting computer—take the shot yourself. Trust me."_

There was barely a second's pause before Red Five's reply_. "Acknowledged."_

In front of Han, Luke's Interceptor reeled off in a vectored dive which dropped him to the surface in seconds. At the same time his comm tacked into the private channel as the kid spoke so fast Han could barely tell what he was saying.

"It's Leia—it's Leia in the X-wing!"

"What?"

"The Jedi—the woman from the cantina on Coruscant!"

"She's Red Five?" Han asked, remembering the petite brunette. They were still behind and slightly above the dogfight—if you could even call it that. With no room to maneuver or evade, it was more akin to a straight shoot-em-up; whoever was at the back won.

Unaware of the ship-to-ship comm, Vader spoke out again, his self-assurance blunted just slightly. "The Force is strong in this one."

"I should have known!" Luke said wildly. "I should have known they'd do this. Only a Jedi could take that shot."

Han saw Vader's TIE open fire, and the bright blaze of a glancing hit flared briefly in the trench as the woman—Leia—spoke out. "_I've lost Artoo!"_

"I have you now," Vader uttered with grim satisfaction.

And all hells broke loose.

In front of Han the kid dropped his angle just slightly…and fired on the rear TIE behind Vader, snicking its wing and sending it careening out of control!

The other wingman let out a brief, "Watch out!" as his opposite number's craft went into a spin. Panicking, he came a fraction too close to Vader's wing in the constricted space, catching against it and sending Vader's TIE spinning from the trench a second before the explosion engulfed both wingmen.

"Sith!" Han cursed as he yanked his yolk up, forcing his Interceptor into a steep bank in a vain effort to avoid the flying debris which impacted against his shields and set warning blares off in his helmet. Ahead of him Luke's TIE, closer to the explosion, jerked and juddered, pulling a few wild twists before he seemed to wrestle it under control.

"Luke, you okay?"

"Where is she?" Luke was yelling, his TIE already turning back for the trench. "Did she…"

Leia's voice rang out loudly over the Rebel comm, a strident tone of victory giving it volume. _"All Rebel craft, pull back—I repeat, all remaining Rebel craft, pull away! We got a hit! Shields to full rear!"_

Han leaned over, but there was nothing visibly different in the trench. Already the few remaining Rebel craft in their vicinity were pushing for open space though; Red Five, the wingman who'd taken a hit, and a stray Y-wing who must have survived. Cursing, he wrenched his TIE about, not knowing whether he believed her or not…

Behind him, the first explosion went off beneath the Death Star's surface with an almighty flare, lighting a run of surface explosions which traced across the equator's surface as fast as the eye could follow. Han was already powering for distance when the second subsurface detonation fired with enough power to send a shockwave of fine debris out… In the next second it went nova, lighting the sky in a blazing flash which erupted in ten different directions at once, then culminated in a final surge of white energy which overtook his TIE in an instant, hurling massive brute force against its shields with the power of a head-on collision…

.

.

.

He came round floating an inch or two clear of his acceleration chair as his restraint harness took the strain, with something wet against his face. Stupidly, he lifted his hand to wipe it away, and hit his knuckles against his visor. In his ear, someone was shouting.

"Han! Han, do you read me? Come in? Han, come in?"

He coughed, and tasted blood in his mouth. Blinking rapidly, he got himself together enough to rasp, "Yeah, I'm here. I read you."

"Do you need assistance?"

"You're kidding, right?"

The kid's TIE was floating outside of his own cockpit. For some reason it seemed upside down, which was a weird assumption to make in deep space. It was a few seconds before Han's befuddled brain realized that it was the massive bulk of the Star Destroyer _Vendetta_ which was throwing him off. With his own artificial gravity gone and the Destroyer visible in the near distance, his mind was using it to judge up and down. He dragged his thoughts into some semblance of awareness as he glanced about the darkened cockpit. Nothing was lit save emergency umbilicals; at least his suit was working, then.

His neck loosed a shock of pain as he reached out to restart the fire-up sequence. Amazingly, his console went to standby and began startup.

"You gotta love those shields," Han muttered, glancing again out to the kid's TIE. "You okay?"

"The Death Star's gone. It was destroyed."

Han took a heartbeat as that sank in. Then another, as the memory of those last few seconds did the same. Before him, the kid's TIE was turning slowly in a broken judder. As his own fighter came back online, so did long-distance comms.

"…to TIE One and Two. Repeat, this is the _Vendetta_ to TIE One and Two. We have a lock, and will tractor you into forward bays. Deactivate all propulsion and give us helm."

"Han, I…"

"Don't say a thing," Han warned, knowing the open channel would be being monitored now that he was back online. "We'll talk in the hangar, okay…okay?"

Silence…and Han didn't know if that was better or worse.

.

.

.

.

.

.

They couldn't get his damaged TIE coupled to its landing strut fast enough, for Han. The moment he could clamber clear he did so, throwing off his helmet and wiping his bloody nose as he ran along the gantry to Luke's scorched and damaged TIE. When he got there, the umbilicals had been connected and the hatch opened, but the kid hadn't moved yet, remaining in his seat as he stared forward.

"Luke?" Han leaned closer when the kid didn't stir. "Luke, you okay? C'mon, we gotta talk. Luke—Luke get out."

The kid climbed out as if he was in a dream, not even reacting when Han took the arm of his flight suit to guide him to the nearest pilot's tack room. Knowing that Indo would likely be here any minute, Han pushed the kid inside the empty locker room and out of sight.

Pressing the light panel, he turned to the kid. "What the hell did you just do?"

Luke didn't look for several seconds, taking off his helmet to simply stare at it, blinking slowly.

"Luke!" Han near-yelled, and the kid finally turned. "What were you thinking out there?"

"I wasn't, okay? I wasn't! All I knew was that I couldn't let Vader shoot her down!"

"So you took a potshot at his wingman?"

"I only clipped him—they were supposed to think they were under enemy fire and pull out of the trench to go evasive. That's all! I wasn't trying to… I wasn't…" The kid dropped his helmet and staggered back two paces until he hit the locker door behind him hard, then slid down to sit on the floor, legs bent, his elbows resting on his knees as he dropped his head forward into his hands. "Sith, what have I done!"

Han stared, watching the kid blink as he shook his head slowly, obviously in shock, his mouth open in horror.

"Okay…okay," Han said at last, groping to pull his own thoughts together. "It's not as bad as it seems."

"Not as bad as it seems? The Death Star is gone—it's gone! How am I going to tell Palpatine?"

Han jerked straight. "You're not seriously even considering…you are, aren't you? You're actually thinking about it! What are you gonna tell Palpatine? I'll tell you what you're gonna tell him: nothing."

Luke stared as if Han had just told him that Wookiees had wings.

"I have to tell Palpatine."

Han couldn't believe they were wasting time arguing about this, when someone would be here any minute. "Are you insane? He'll kill you, you realize that? The man will actually kill you!"

The kid pursed his lips, scowling as he glared down. "I have to tell him."

"Tell him what? That something you did in the heat of battle may or may not have had a fraction of a second's bearing on whether an enemy fighter that was already lined up for a shot, took it? Luke, that shot was happening anyway."

"Vader could have taken her out."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. That's why I…did what I did."

"No, you don't. Let's keep a little perspective here."

"Perspective? I killed them all." The kid's quiet voice was disbelief and dismay. "I'm responsible for the Death Star's destruction."

Han crouched down before him, putting as much assurance into his voice as he could. "Okay, stop. Right now."

"I should have let Vader fire on her. Should have let her take her chance, like everyone else." Luke glanced up to Han, eyes wide. "But I didn't, and because of that, the Death Star was destroyed. I knew—I _knew_ when I was in that trench that only she could have succeeded…yet not only did I not try to stop her myself, I actually kept her alive, to make the shot. So yes, I _am_ responsible. Palpatine sent me out here intending for me to be in command of the Death Star when it destroyed a planet. He wanted me to be responsible…but I tried to avoid it. Stupidly, I tried to avoid my Master's will, tried to…" he paused, unable to even say it, a weak half-laugh taking him at the irony of it, "to do the right thing. Tried to stop Leia being killed. And look what it got me; I'm responsible for far more deaths with the destruction of the Death Star than I ever would have been if I'd let the destruction of Yavin go ahead."

The kid dropped his head into his hands again, shaking it slowly. "Palpatine was right; he was right when he said that death follows me. That's what I am, he said—that's what he made me and that's all I'll ever be: death and destruction."

Han sat on the bench in front of the kid, who still sat on the floor, legs hunched up and arms about them, rocking slightly forward and backward on the spot. Han made his own voice soften. "Why—why'd'you do it?"

Luke's head dropped to rest on his knees, bewildered and beaten. "I don't know! I was thinking…maybe I was thinking she was my only link to Kenobi and…and…I just _knew_ it was wrong. It wasn't a choice, it wasn't a conscious decision, it was way past all that."

Han brought his hand up to rub his forehead, looking for a way out of this. "Okay, well… Well, my TIE's not in any state to have individual shots that I took still recorded, and yours looks worse than mine. Were your systems running after the...after the Death Star went up?"

"No." The word was muffled as Luke spoke it into his knees without lifting his head.

"Okay, so that means they have no record of who took that shot. Did Vader make it?"

"Yes."

Han stiffened…then relaxed a little. "But he was two ships in front of you, and it wasn't him you hit. Both wingmen took a dive, so…"

Luke looked up. "Stop—just stop. I'm telling Palpatine. That's it."

"Listen to me! The X-wing that Vader clipped and let out of the trench on the last run—it could easily have gotten its damage under control and turned about, then come in above us to take that shot at Vader's wingman! It's basic piloting, one-oh-one; you always ride a kill 'till it blows, 'cos just because he's smoking and struggling, that doesn't mean he can't get it under control and become a threat again. You _always_ check the kill. Vader made a mistake—use it!"

"No."

"He damn well would against you, and you know it."

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. When the kid spoke again, he was quiet and composed and deadly serious. "You should leave."

Han straightened. "What?"

"You should leave. Now. I'll clear a long-range scoutship from the forward bay, and you should take it and go."

"I'm not goin' anywhere."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

The kid rose to brush imaginary dust off his flightsuit without looking at Han, his voice steady but distant. "No, we're done. This…game, this charade, this…whatever you want to call it—friendship, knowing you—it's done, now. I'm through."

"Yeah, nice try."

Luke straightened, eyes and voice hardening. "Leave! What is it about that word that you never understand? Go… Get out!"

"I'm not leaving," Han countered simply. "What is it about those words that you can't understand? I'm _not going_."

"If you stay, Palpatine will kill you. It won't matter that it was me who did it. Once he knows what happened, he'll kill you just because you were there."

He'd known that much already, Han reflected—then paused. Because that was what this _leave_ stuff was about; it was about Luke protecting Han, not himself…and with knowledge of that, Han saw a way through. "Damn straight he'll kill me. So I hope you'll think very carefully before you tell him. Because whatever you say, we face the consequences together. You want to tell Palpatine your version of what happened, then I'll be standing a step behind you, and we both face the music, together… Or you could tell him mine, and we both walk away. Your choice. Whichever you say, I'll back you up. But whichever you say, I'm not leaving."

Luke hung his head, desperate. "You have to go…I can't lie to him."

"What about the spice?"

"The spice is nothing, not compared to this!" Luke looked up, eyes wild. "Han, I've never lied to him about something like this in my life—ever. He'll find out—he always does."

"How? If you keep quiet, I sure as hell aren't gonna tell him."

"You don't need to tell him, you know that!"

"Hey, I got that thing you taught me, I can hide stuff."

"No, you can disguise if someone's not specifically looking, you can confuse motives. This is totally different."

"How?"

"How? This is like saying, Well, I can walk, so I can probably do a backwards double somersault! If Palpatine found out, he'd take you apart."

"As opposed to your version of events, where he'll definitely take us _both_ apart."

"Unless you leave."

"No, I'm not going. That's not an option here."

"He won't kill me."

"Now who's bad at disguising the truth?"

"He won't. He'll…"

"He'll break every bone in your damn body."

Luke glanced down. "Just…_please_ go."

"No, we do this together. We—"

The next moment Indo burst into the room, a flurry of noise and nerves as he glanced about wide-eyed. "Luke! Are you alright? What happened?"

Han straightened. "We're fine."

Indo didn't even acknowledge him, looking the kid up and down as he walked forward, as if to check that Luke was indeed in one piece. "Practically nothing survived. We have only nine TIEs from the Death Star, and six of those were from the main battle, not the trench."

So Vader _had_ survived, Han reflected. Despite Luke's words, he'd been hoping otherwise; would've made things a lot simpler.

Indo continued, still looking the kid up and down. "The _Vendetta_ has massive damage to its port side, and her sublight engines are damaged. They're putting priority to navigational shield repairs, so we can jump clear of the Rebel base. Do you know what happened? You said that the Rebels had a viable attack plan?"

"They'd found an insufficiently shielded exhaust port that gave them direct access to the main reactor, if they could make the shot. That's what they were trying…" The kid stumbled over the last word, as if still unable quite to assimilate the truth. "What they did."

"That was at the trench, where yourself and Vader were?"

"Yes."

"Then…?"

Luke looked down, his voice quiet. "They'd had two failed runs. I'd taken out the attackers in the first run, and Vader had in the second. He was in a position to take the shot at the X-wing that was making the third torpedo run," Luke paused, eyes flicking briefly back to Han, visibly torn. "He…his wingman came under fire from a Rebel X-wing. The wingman lost control, and there was a collision. No one else was close enough to take the shot at the Rebel."

Indo glanced once to Han, who was getting good enough round here by now that he didn't let an inkling of his relief show on his own face as the Viscount looked back to the kid. "How close were you?"

"Not close enough. Vader had two wingmen behind him and he'd already cut me up to get into the lead so he could take the shot. I'd…" Again Luke glanced to Han. "We'd pulled back to give him enough room."

Indo's eyes narrowed. "Lord Vader missed the shot?"

"He never had the chance to take it. He was knocked clear of the trench in the collision with his own wingman."

The Viscount sighed, his relief obvious. "Lord Vader's TIE was damaged, but not as badly as your Interceptors. His TIE's flight recorder is intact and undamaged. It will…" he looked searchingly at Luke, his words holding the ring of a question, "it will corroborate all of this?"

Han stepped quickly in, aware that he'd forced Luke's hand and looking to deflect Indo's attention when the kid was so visibly uncomfortable. "There's nothing for Vader's flight recorder to corroborate, it wasn't Vader who was shot. His flight recorder will register the collision as his own wingman hit him, but that's it. They'd need the wingman's flight recorder to check the frequency of the laser that hit it, and since the wingman's gone, so is that information."

"I see," Indo said slowly. "So there is, in fact, no way to verify what happened."

"Other than what we just told you, no. Vader wouldn't have seen it because it all took place behind him, while he was lining up for the shot."

Indo's cold gray eyes studied Han as he held his sabacc face, not letting his nerves show…because the fact was that even though the Viscount had been with the kid for years, Han had no idea what Indo would do if he knew the truth. No idea if he'd stand by Luke and try to ease the outcome, as Han had done…or dutifully report all to the Emperor, then simply stand in willing acquiescence, as he had when he'd brought Palpatine the kid's lightsaber.

He just didn't know…but the kid probably did—and he stayed silent.

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By the time Leia had nursed her battered and struggling X-wing in to a rough landing in the main hangar of Massassi Temple, crowds were already beginning to gather, shouting and whooping in jubilation. Grinning, she popped the canopy to a cacophony of noise as everyone cheered, shouting their delight. Across the hangar, Wedge Antilles brought his own damaged X-wing to a rocky landing and stood as he lifted the canopy, stepping out onto the nose to wave his arms.

By the time Leia was down the ladder, reeling from the back-patting and congratulations, Wedge had made it through the crowd and shouted her name. She flung herself at him and he lifted her up to spin her around as she laughed, dizzy and thrilled, high on the moment.

She turned, still grinning, to look through the crowd for Biggs…and the price of their victory hit like a body blow. The knowledge of so many lost bled her smile away, the pitiful number of fighters in the hangar and the silent faces at the edge of the crowd making its euphoria seem suddenly unfitting.

The techs chose that moment to lower Artoo, scorched and silent, from her fighter. Artoo, who'd always looked after her from the very first time she'd flown solo. Who'd always been there, even if it was only to take her down with a timely rebuke…silent now.

Leia pulled free of Wedge to rest her hand on his blackened dome as she looked to the tech. "You can fix him, right?"

"We'll do what we can."

"Don't wipe…"

"I know, I know," the tech said, nodding. "Don't wipe his memory. Do I ever?"

Leia smiled and, feeling the tug of Wedge's hand about her wrist, let herself be pulled back to the moment.

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The debrief was hard to listen to, as the voices of those now gone lived again in echoes of their struggle, played out in the recording of their ship-to-ship comms. Their bravery, their commitment, their fear, their determination. Moment to moment, she relived it with them.

It was Wedge who mercifully broke the spell, when he stood up from the corner of the desk that he was leaning on to say, "That's him! That's the Interceptor pilot who saved your life!"

"What?" It was their first run-through of the minutes of the battle, so Wedge's claim, completely out of the blue, took Leia by surprise.

General Dodonna, to the opposite wall of his small office, straightened as he looked to Obi-Wan, though he was old and seasoned enough that nothing particularly surprised him. "Care to elucidate on that, Lieutenant Antilles?"

He paused the inter-ship comms at the point that Leia was ending her trench-run. It had been a surprise to her that she'd been given the run at all, based on the fact that both Biggs and Wedge were more experienced combat pilots, Biggs with full Imperial fighter-pilot training, and Wedge having flown pretty much as soon as he could sit upright in a pilot's seat. Although she'd flown fighters in combat for almost a year, and been flying for far longer than that, Leia was still just sixteen and this had been her first taste of real, autonomous responsibility in a dogfight. It had been terrifying.

In the compressed adrenalin-rush of the moment she hadn't even thought about it—hadn't had the attention to spare—but in retrospect, she was beginning to wonder if Obi-Wan had given her the trench run only after the automated targeting systems had failed twice in succession, specifically because he knew she could bring the Force to bear.

Wedge continued, animated and earnest. "I swear, I saw it with my own eyes, Sir. The Interceptor shot at one of his own TIEs. It wasn't a miss-shoot because he lined up for it, and there were no other Rebel fighters anywhere near."

Farlander, the only other surviving fighter pilot, moved uneasily at that, but held his silence.

"I actually saw him take the shot," Wedge continued, lifting his arms to indicate fighter positions and angles, as pilots tended to do. "I had a perfect view, nothing else in my line of vision. The Interceptor had come out of the trench to follow me. I'd lost all my micro-control servos when I took a shot, so I thought I was finished when he lined up behind me…then he just tipped his wing and dropped back down into the trench so hard even his own wingman was left standing…" Wedge paused to look somberly at Leia. "That Advanced TIE was right on you, Leia. I mean, he was a second from his shot when the Interceptor dropped back into the trench and fired on Vader's wingman."

Obi-Wan moved uneasily, stroking his beard, as he tended to do when deep in thought. "So it was one of Vader's own men who stopped him?"

Wedge nodded, eyes still on Leia. "Vader was right on your tail—he had the shot."

Leia frowned, suppressing the urge to shiver at the prickle that crept up her spine. She'd known, of course, that her father was out there from the moment she'd seen the TIE Advanced. There was only one stretch-winged Advanced flying in the Imperial fleet, and everyone knew exactly who flew it, even if they didn't know his relationship to Leia.

Dodonna shook his head as he studied the datapad he held. "We have no known agents in the fighter flights assigned to the Death Star. If we had, we'd've been utilizing them already."

"Sympathizer?" Wes hazarded.

"If he was, he picked a hell of a time to make the decision to do something about it," Farlander said. "And why not come back here, afterwards? Why risk returning to the only remaining Imperial vessel?"

"Maybe he didn't have a choice," Wedge reasoned. "Interceptors have shielding, but they're not X-wings. He may not have been able to fly anywhere after that thing blew."

Leia stood, realization hitting her. "Wait—so all Imperial fighters returned to the _Vendetta_?"

"We have confirmation, yes," Dodonna said—then straightened, in realization of what she was saying.

He moved quickly forward to corral the two other pilots out of his office. "Thank you, gentlemen, please wait for us outside…and of course, all the details we've related in here are strictly confidential."

Wedge leaned around the General to look at Leia. "Wait a minute, do you know who he is? You've got something, haven't you?"

Leia glanced down, suppressing a smile at her friend's far from correct behavior, as he and Farlander were guided through the door and out into the empty waiting room beyond.

"C'mon, Leia? Aahhh…"

The last she saw of him was his frustrated disappointment as the first in what was probably a long string of Corellian curses came to his lips, just as the door slid shut.

Dodonna walked back to his desk, all business again. "Now's a sensitive time to contact him."

"We'll need to be careful," Obi-Wan agreed. "Keep the talk and our request to an absolute minimum. He may yet be on duty."

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It took long minutes to establish the link, and a nervous wait of a few moments as the link chimed. Just when they were about to cut the comm, Lieutenant Ander Rendrake, the comms officer and sole Rebel agent onboard the _Vendetta_, finally answered.

"Six three nine seven…confim?"

It was the first half of a code, the second half provided by the Alliance, to confirm that everyone was who they claimed to be.

"Five five one nine," Dodonna said, confident to speak such codes in front of the Alliance's two Jedi.

There was a moment as Rendrake checked his codes…then, "Well, you guys have caused havoc up here. That was…that was one hell of a show."

"We need some information," Obi-Wan said, leaning forward towards the comlink set into Dodonna's desk.

"We're not in great shape. We took a lot of damage to our port side as the Death Star blew. Our lightspeed engines and navigational shields were knocked out of calibration. We've already been recalled directly to Coruscant on the Emperor's command, so they're intending to go to lightspeed the moment they've recalibrated. Another hour or so at the most…"

"No, we need information about the pilots you took onboard after the battle. Specifically, the Interceptor pilots. We need ID's and backgrounds. Do you know them?"

"Interceptors? We don't have a compliment of…wait, yes, there were two brought onboard for this mission. They came back after the battle—both of them. But they were in a bad state."

Obi-Wan glanced to Leia as he spoke into the comlink. "Do you know the pilots? Are they regular crew there?"

"No, definitely not—and they're not pilots. Not regular pilots, anyway. We've done the occasional job ferrying them around, but they're Intel—pretty highly placed, I think. I'm pretty sure that one of them is Ubiqtorate."

"Ubiqtorate?" Leia frowned: Ubiqtorate didn't generally go around having crises of loyalty which made them shoot down their own TIEs. You didn't make it into the Ubiqtorate with anything short of unswerving devotion to the Empire.

"What else can you tell us?" Obi-Wan asked, hurrying the conversation along.

"Wait, I might…hold on. I have the codes to patch into the standard feeds in the hangars. I'm scrolling through the last hour now."

The line fell silent as Rendrake concentrated, then his voice came on, distracted as he split his attention. "I can tell you we generally pick them up in or close to the Core Systems, an older man in ambassadorial robes, a pretty young kid—he's the one who wears the uniform, from what I've heard, but not all the time—and usually another military officer. I've never seen them myself, and I can tell you for a fact that their ID's aren't on the system, because I've mentioned them in other dispatches for that very reason. They never stay more than a few…here, I have the images. These are from a security lens in hangar six, so the quality isn't great. This is them when they were leaving the hangar. I'm transmitting a still now. Obviously, the two pilots are the ones in black. The older man is the ambassador, I think. You might have more luck trying to trace the older man's image than the kid's if he's Ubiqtorate—you know how they are."

The comm on Dodonna's desk registered a message received, and he keyed the image to project. Compressed for transmission, it was a single freeze-frame from security footage, blurred from its extreme zoom, and taken from a high angle. Three men were walking along one of the higher gantries, two of them still in pilot's flightsuits…

Leia leaned in. "Wait, I…I know them. That's…" She reached out to point at the younger man, struggling to place his face. Not like this; he hadn't been dressed like this… "He's…"

Realization of where she'd seen him pulled Leia upright. She spoke his name at the exact same time that Obi-Wan did—only it wasn't the same name. When Leia straightened, she said, "Deak Autrey!"

In the same moment, Obi-Wan said, "Luke Antilles."

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Obi-Wan sat at the table onboard the Mon Cal cruiser _Liberty_, the flagship of the Alliance, which had returned to Yavin IV to take onboard personnel and essential technology, and to leave more fighters to help defend Yavin base until it could be fully evacuated. Anxious to speak with Mon Mothma, he had taken Leia and what information they had, and travelled up to the Alliance flagship.

Now, with the _Liberty_ underway, they were already in Chief Mothma's offices, sitting about the flickering, poor quality holo, projected as large as it could be without breaking up. Intel onboard the _Liberty_ had cleaned it up a little and spent the last hour tying what information Rendrake had sent from the _Vendetta_ before it had launched into lightspeed for Coruscant, into their own scant knowledge of the boy's movements in the last year. He kept an impressively low profile, difficult to follow because he had no set military position and several aliases, the list being added to with alarming regularity. Certainly Deak Autrey was new.

Previous to this, the most recent confirmed image Intel had held of Luke was almost nine months out of date, in which the boy sported a close military crop, his hair still fair. But a year for a boy his age was everything, and Obi-Wan now found himself looking at the image of a young man, still slight and slim, but with his shoulders broadening and his features maturing, the hair that had been fair in his youth now darkening, left uncut for long enough that it sat on his collar in unruly waves. And his eyes…in the new image, as in the old, his eyes were cool and distanced, some capacity beyond wayward mischief or boisterous youth in their sharpness—something that resided at the very core of him…

Why had he saved Leia? Did he know the truth, Obi-Wan wondered? Surely not; if Vader wasn't even aware of the true identity of his son, then there was no way that anyone could make the far more tenuous links that would tie Leia and Luke, and therefore Vader, together. So why would Luke intercede, especially when he had? Was it premeditated? Of his own volition? Obi-Wan rubbed at the scrub of beard under his chin; had the Force perhaps guided his hand? An interesting consideration, given the boy's background…

Mon Mothma was visible through the holo as she stepped round from her desk and walked smoothly forward to join them at the conference table, coolly collected as ever, despite probably a few thousand comms being fielded in her outer office right now.

Her thoughts completely in the moment, she sat, smiling warmly at Leia. "Tell me everything."

"It's nothing you don't know," Leia said. "You know that I was passing through the Core systems weeks ago when the Alliance lost contact with our spy from Sinto Military Garrison, so I made the detour to try to ascertain why. I said in my debrief that I'd spoken with a young local in a cantina, and he'd told me that the garrison was locked down, but that he might be able to put me in contact with someone who knew more about the situation. He suggested we…we meet again. When we did, he…oh—" Leia paused, and Obi-Wan sensed her silent self-reproach as she looked to him. "I told him my name."

Obi-Wan straightened, but didn't speak. This had been exactly what he'd always feared, when Leia had been so adamant that she keep her own family name. He tightened his jaw against saying it, knowing that both she and Mon Mothma would be aware of the gravity of the slip. He'd long argued against Leia keeping or using her family name, but Mon had taken Leia's corner, as she often seemed to do, and…and there was no point in counting mistakes now, save in finding ways to deal with them. Leia still stared at him, guilt swamping her, and Obi-Wan swallowed his frustrations and ordered himself to move forward.

"Leia, there's no way you could have been aware. Sith can hide themselves in plain sight, you know that. Palpatine walked freely in the Senate and dealt daily with the Jedi when they were at the height of their power—even Master Yoda didn't recognize the truth."

Leia glanced to the old Intel image, of the fair haired youth. "But I've seen that holo so many times."

Mon shook her head. "Our image was almost a year out of date, he's changed a good deal since then. He was also out of his environment and actively intending to mislead whoever he met, on Coruscant." She glanced to Obi-Wan. "At least we now know why our contact there failed."

Obi-Wan nodded. "And why we were dogged by ongoing failures in Operation Skyhook, if a Sith was moving against us."

Leia shook her head. "I didn't give him anything he could use, I'm sure of it." She dropped her head into her hands on the table in dismay, still so young.

Perhaps he shouldn't have sanctioned her going on a solo mission, Obi-Wan mused. Certainly if he had been there, he wouldn't have allowed the detour to Coruscant, of all places. But he had faith in her abilities and as Mon had argued, one learned by trial and error. Yes, she was all but the last Jedi, but she had to be allowed to reach her full potential…and for that, she had to learn by her own mistakes. "This is a good lesson, Leia," he said aloud. "You need to be mindful of such things at all times. The Force seems to naturally pull our kind together."

Had it done the same with Leia and Luke? And if it had, did Obi-Wan have any right to interfere?

"But there was nothing, Master," Leia insisted. "Nothing at all. Vader, I can sense in an instant."

"Vader doesn't conceal his abilities."

Mon looked again to the holo of Luke Antilles, her calm voice giving nothing of the momentary hope that Obi-Wan sensed light within her. "Perhaps he hasn't been trained."

Obi-Wan's feelings flared in empathy—but he clamped down on them. He'd made so many mistakes in trusting the boy's father, seen so many moments towards the end that he'd wilfully ignored. He wouldn't make the same mistakes with his son. "Mon, we have an image of him far younger than this, already wearing a lightsaber."

"One image, Master Kenobi."

But then they had only six images altogether, of the boy who lived beneath the Sith Emperor's roof. Seven now, with this new addition, uncovered almost by accident, as most of the others had been. Obi-Wan wondered if Mon saw all that he did in the boy's shadowed face. Wondered if she recognized within her own innate compassion, her desperate need to hope otherwise. Certainly she knew his true heritage, and though Mon was disciplined enough to be able to withhold such information from Leia, Obi-Wan knew that Leia would sense that something was amiss here. Fortunately, she'd likely attribute Mon's unease to the situation.

"And you sensed nothing?" Obi-Wan pushed, looking to Leia.

"No, nothing…but there was a moment…an instant." Leia straightened slightly, touching her own hand to her sleeve in repetition of a vivid memory. "The first time we met—the very first time—he reached out to take my arm to stop me leaving and…I think perhaps…I don't know, I think I sensed something. Just a split second."

"Can you attribute it to the Force? To anything else you've ever sensed before? Leia, this is important."

"I don't…it wasn't even a second, it was just…"

Obi-Wan straightened, pointing out the relevant fact. "Just that he wanted to stop you leaving."

"Leia…" Mon asked, urgency masked by her ever-calm voice. "Do you think he knew what you were?"

"I don't know. I was cloaking my presence, because I was close to the Imperial Palace. If he did, he made no move against me. And today…" She hesitated, her eyes fixed on the holo. "Let me contact him again. If I go to Coruscant, I can make—"

"Leia, he's already purposely deceived you," Obi-Wan reasoned. "His motives are not known, and he won't reveal them easily."

"He could have tried to stop me that first time, and he didn't. I met him again a few nights later, so if he'd wanted to lay an ambush, he'd had time to organize it…but he didn't."

"He cannot be trusted."

"Even now? Vader could have killed me—would have, Wedge said."

"She has a point, Master Kenobi," Mon offered. "If there's a chance—even a chance to save him…"

"We're risking too much. Remember who he is."

Leia frowned. "Why wouldn't you take that chance?"

It was such a simple question, asked with no aside, and yet the answer sprawled over decades, a broken tale of betrayals and massacres which had seen a Republic fall and the Jedi eradicated. Though in truth the boy had no part in it; he had been just another innocent victim of his father's deeds… Obi-Wan looked again to the holo, wondering if he was judging too harshly; if he was visiting the failures of the father onto the son.

"Let me contact him," Leia said, unaware of the weight on Obi-Wan's shoulders. "He gave me a way to contact him, a private comm channel. He's spoken to me before, he trusts me."

"And do you trust him?"

She hesitated…

"Leia, I would like to believe that he will help us, I truly would, for so many reasons. But—"

"He helped me!"

"You assume it was for your benefit, not his."

"Yes—I assume…because I don't know! Master, let me go, let me ask him face to face. I know what he is now, he won't trick me again." She leaned forward, resting her hand on his arm. "Master, I should do this—I know I should."

He stared into her eyes, empathically aware of the need that drove her, but still reticent, uncertain what to do. It seemed that neither the boy nor Vader knew the truth of their relationship…but surely if Luke had passed on Leia's name to either Vader or Palpatine, some reaction would have been noted by Rebel intel by now. Even if Luke had identified her and passed on her name during the dogfights over the Death Star—and what possible reason would he have had not to—then Vader should have reacted then...or had he; had his reaction been to try to kill her? And if so, why had Luke stopped him?

Too many unanswered questions…and it seemed more imperative than ever that they find out the facts—though allowing Leia to go to Coruscant seemed foolhardy. She watched him closely, wanting this opportunity to redress her previous failures in trusting Antilles…_trusting him_. Did some connection exist, that no one else could hope to make? Was this indeed the work of the Force? Something tingled at the back of Obi-Wan's awareness, prospect and portent, both.

And still Leia stared at him, wildly hopeful, wanting answers as much as anyone else here, he knew, though for far less complicated reasons…

"Very well. But be mindful of all I've told you, Leia. You know Luke Antilles' history." Obi-Wan held Leia's eyes, though his next words were aimed as much at Mon as at Leia…and maybe, if he were to admit it, a little at himself, too. "He's grown up under the tutelage of Sith. It would be folly on all our parts to think that he is anything other than the same."

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Obi-Wan waited in silence until Leia left and the door slid silently closed, feeling the surety he'd projected for Leia's sake leech from him. Ever tactful, Mon remained silent, waiting.

"What are we doing, Mon?" Obi-Wan asked at last. "Is it so different from what Palpatine does, in withholding the truth from Anakin and Luke?"

"Our motives most surely are."

"Are they?" It had seemed so clear when Master Yoda had been alive, his own certitude galvanizing Obi-Wan's.

"She could never face him, Master Kenobi—not if she knew he was her brother. And if he's Sith, as you say, he'd seek only to use it against her."

Obi-Wan had always known on some level that the fight with Anakin—with Vader—was his alone; that one day, the duel they had begun on Mustafar would come to a decisive end. But Luke...he was the next generation. He was young and strong, tempered in the flames of a Sith's training, and with his father's blood unhindered in his veins…it was not Obi-Wan's fight. He knew that, just as Master Yoda had.

How, then, could they send Leia into that battle, with such a terrible awareness of the truth? How could they ask her to shoulder that burden? She carried enough with the knowledge of her father's identity. Mon was right; he couldn't ask Leia to face Luke, knowing the truth. If someone had to carry the guilt of that knowledge with them, Obi-Wan would rather it was he than Leia. He became aware of Mon's steady gaze on him.

"You're sure, Master Kenobi, that the boy is Sith?"

Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. "He can't be anything more. He's been Palpatine's padawan since the age of seven, and he now serves his Master in the Ubiqtorate."

"Yet he saved Leia's life today."

"Perhaps he didn't know it was her."

"Which makes it all the more remarkable, don't you think? Forgive me, Master Kenobi—I know you think me hopelessly sentimental." She smiled warmly as he looked to her. "But is the boy any less deserving of this chance simply because it is…inconvenient?"

Obi-Wan looked down, feeling old doubts gnaw at him, knowledge of his misjudgments with Anakin never fading. "The last time we tried to help him we lost Master Yoda. Would you risk losing Leia now, too?"

"Master Yoda's death was none of the boy's doing—and it seems he's helped Leia more than once."

"But it was the actions of the Sith who has taught Luke for the last nine years that lost us Master Yoda…do you still want to trust him?"

"Yes, I do…and I think you do, too."

Obi-Wan glanced down, frowning…because it was true. Every single piece of evidence had pointed toward the boy's culpability…prior to this. But now—now that tiny ember of hope sparked once more within Obi-Wan—that he could save the boy, that he could redress his own failures with Anakin.

But he was terrified that his need to reverse past mistakes was blinding him to present dangers…dangers to Leia more than himself.

"I should go. I should be the one to speak to the boy."

"Have faith in your padawan, Master Kenobi," Mon said with a faint smile. "She's not a child any more. She clearly has a rapport with him."

"And if he _is_ Sith?"

Mon raised her head, her steely commitment shining. "Then we proceed as we had always intended, and remove _all_ of the Sith who hold this dictatorship in power. But we will do so with a clear conscience—for ourselves and for Leia."

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Intensely inhabited, a dense mass of life which never slept, never rested in its endless quest to remain forever the center of the galaxy, Coruscant glowed with its own importance. Across its night side lights twinkled in warm hues, regular patterns suggesting subtle curves with strings of pinpoint brightness as delicate as gossamer, to mark its massive cities. Wide arcs of elegant tracery converged into bursts of concentrated luminosity, building up the glowing mass of the Capital Planet, a spectacle to shame the brightest nebula from the planet where night never truly fell. It was spectacular and it was entrancing and it was unequalled—and it left Luke cold. An emptiness echoed by the dense darkness which hulked in silence just beyond each gathering of lustrous light and life.

Luke waited as they made orbit, arms wrapped about himself in the solitary stillness of his impersonal quarters. He wondered briefly if Vader too was waiting, somewhere. Though they'd travelled onboard the same Destroyer back to Coruscant, neither had once made comment, nor sought each other out. Perhaps Vader felt the same swell of unspoken empathy that Luke did, each aware that both they and the other was returning to face Palpatine's wrath.

The door slid aside and Indo's hushed footfalls announced his presence, though Luke had sensed his tense unease long before. But his voice was calm and even, as he spoke the words Luke had known would come. "The Emperor commands you to an audience."

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To be continued...

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	19. Chapter 19

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**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

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Han entered the kid's apartment without slowing, but Gorn must have heard him, and came running out of the staffroom door to grab for Han's sleeve as he passed.

"Wait!"

Han and Indo had returned to the kid's apartment that first night, when Luke's summons had taken him to the Emperor immediately that he'd entered the palace. He hadn't returned all the next day, though Indo had been his usual inscrutable self, maintaining a stony silence. Han had stuck around after his shift, but Indo had swapped shifts so that Gorn and not Ashtor would take the unaccompanied night shift in case of Luke's return, so eventually Han had gone to his own quarters around midnight, knowing that Gorn would let him know if anything happened.

The comm came in just after three. Han had thrown on a shirt and pants and run there.

"Where is he?" he rasped. "What happened"

"I have no idea." Gorn set forward to keep pace with Han. "I saw a light on and the end of the enfilade was open—in Luke's rooms—and when I walked down, there he was, sitting on the floor. He'd opened that canvas up that arrived last week and was just staring at it."

"Have you spoken to him? What did he say?"

"Spoken? No, you don't speak to him when he's like this—you know that."

Han felt his heart drop. "Like what?"

Gorn looked down uncomfortably.

"Shit."

Han slowed at the start of the enfilade, where the jacket Luke had been wearing when he'd first gone to face Palpatine lay abandoned on the floor as if simply dropped, his boots discarded as if kicked away unheeded. Gorn slowed as they reached the final room before Luke's private quarters, though Han could feel his own pace quicken in worry.

He stopped at the doorway, eyes drawn to the distorted mercury glass doors; a single bloody handprint, smeared and dried, made his heart skip a beat. Setting forward, he heard Gorn stop behind him—felt him grab at the back of his shirt to slow him—but nerves drove Han forward into the room alone.

Luke was sitting cross-legged on the floor almost in the center of the empty space, staring at the new canvas which had been hung unevenly on the wall before him, its ashen grey wrapping discarded in a bundled ball beneath it, dragged daubs of dry blood visible on its surface.

Han took a slow arc into the room which enabled him to come sideways on to Luke to show his presence; enabled him to see the blood on the kid's pale face, left to dry unheeded. There was a tear in his shirt; a smattering of blood dried to dirty red-brown. It was untucked, half-buttoned and creased. His scuffed knuckles tightened just slightly at Han's slow approach, bare feet moving against the dusty floor. He didn't turn though, didn't move at all, his attention riveted on the huge canvas that hung on the wall before him, those about it removed and piled against the side wall.

Han hesitated, momentarily uncertain what to do. The golden rule laid down by Indo was that you didn't go near; that you left him alone whenever he'd faced Palpatine's harsh retribution. That you let him come out of it in his own good time or you paid the price.

But this was the worst, by far, that he'd ever seen the kid. This was serious. And he couldn't do it. Couldn't look the other way and keep his head down… How could they do that? How could they all walk away from this? Han faltered barely a single step, and that only for fear of offending, before he set forward to sit cross-legged on the floor beside Luke, looking up at that same huge canvas. Kid didn't move, didn't acknowledge Han at all.

"So," Han said, carefully keeping his eyes forward on the new acquisition, knowing from his own harsh childhood that Luke wouldn't want attention; that any attempt at direct help now would be rebuffed. "What are we looking at?"

"You like it?" The kid's slight, youthful voice was a distant murmur. "It's Capellan."

"It's a big green squiggle," Han replied, half-closing his eyes as he tilted his head.

Luke smiled slightly, but that unsettling veneer of insular stillness remained, as if anything greater might shatter the fragile hold he had on himself.

"It's perfect," he murmured, eyes tracing the canvas. "It's…expansive… Makes you feel you can breathe deeply. Like you can open your ribs up and breathe."

"Yeah?"

Luke paused for a few seconds in study, in which Han risked a sideways glance. One eye was swollen half-shut and his lip was split, his neck deeply scratched above a red-soaked collar, skin scuffed and gouged and bruised—but he sat straight-backed as he stared at the canvas, not once turning in acknowledgement or rejection of Han's gaze.

"Yes…and now I've made a mark on it."

Han glanced to the canvas. Two small, bloody handprints showed at its edges, where it had been lifted to be hung. "See, I thought they were meant to be there."

The kid smiled. "Very existential."

He wasn't exactly opening up, Han knew, but this was definitely something new, for anyone's presence to be even tolerated right now. Han remembered well this moment from his days with Shrike; remembered that to have any kind of concern or consolation offered, was too much to bear. He was intensely aware that he was very deliberately being allowed a step closer than ever before. Maybe the kid knew that Han understood all this, having been through the same…maybe he just needed someone—anyone—here right now, so he could stop having to think about whatever the hell had happened. Han hardly dared breathe for fear of breaking the moment.

He looked away, taking a second to gather himself, and hiding it behind an examination of the huge canvas. Bold calligraphy was quickly scrawled in dense moss green paint in a language he didn't recognize, the three huge characters crowding off its edges. He stared without seeing, all his attention on the brittle stillness of the kid beside him.

Luke held his gaze on the canvas, and Han wondered again whether he was deliberately avoiding having to think on the day's events. Had this always been the case—was that what this ever-changing gallery of color and vitality and creativity was: an obsessive attempt to create another reality completely removed from the daily grind of his life?

"It's Oridago," Luke said, as if he expected Han to know.

"What, is that a style, the language, the artist, what?"

"Artist—Goland Oridago. He's Capellan, still relatively unknown, but it won't last. Early pieces are always the best, when the artist isn't too beaten down by other's expectations. Later pieces tend to reflect outside pressures."

Han nodded, seeing all the canvases here with a new awareness; who'd have thought the kid knew this kinda stuff? A second thought occurred, as Luke's words sank in: _too beaten down by other's expectations._ "What does it say?"

Luke's voice was calm and distant, tempered by awareness of the irony: "It says, 'Seek Solitude'."

A stretched span of silence, in which despite the words, they sat companionably together, staring at the near-abstract artwork.

Han finally set his head to one side, his eyes still on the canvas, voice tinged with teasing humor. "You sure it's the right way up?"

The kid smiled without turning. "It is for me."

"Very existential."

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"You look tired," Han tried at last.

They'd been sitting there for a good while now, and Han's legs were buzzing. The kid did look tired, the dark shadows which were always under his eyes now pronounced, his stance tensely wired, though his shoulders were sagging. Occasionally he moved to resettle his weight, letting out a near-silent groan.

His gaze flicked down at Han's words, as if he were momentarily pondering his response before finally admitting vaguely, "I am. Very."

"C'mon, let's get you some sleep, huh?" Han rose, but Luke remained still, eyes on the canvas, forcing Han to pause. "You coming?"

Luke's voice remained distant as he studied the canvas, engrossed. "No, you go. I'll stay here."

Han sighed. "I'll go get you a blanket and something to sleep on."

The kid nodded dreamily, and Han didn't know if he was lost in the artwork or his own thoughts, in his attempt to forget what had happened. In the end, he supposed it didn't matter; kid needed looking after just the same.

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A murmured voice woke Han from where he slept on the only furniture in the room, the single straight-backed chair he'd rightened to sit in.

Indo was crouched down before Luke, his voice very quiet but casual. "Luke…Luke, are you awake?"

Han glanced to the windows, where dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky. They'd slept maybe an hour at most. It occurred to Han that Gorn had probably contacted Indo about the same time that he'd contacted Han, so the Viscount must have waited by choice, until he'd felt the moment was right to try to wake Luke, long experience meaning he'd know exactly the right tack to take…_ Experience_, Han reflected bitterly.

Luke moved just slightly with a sigh, small and heavy with sleep.

"We should head over to the medicenter. Just stop in, yes?"

Luke didn't speak as Indo rose, offering his hand. "Can you stand?"

The kid made to do so, but let out a low noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan as his beaten body, stiffened in sleep, tried to move. For the first time ever, Han saw Luke reach out and take his hand, as Indo leaned in to help him upright.

They passed at a slow, broken pace, Luke limping badly, the blanket Han had given him still wrapped about his shoulders. Indo glanced just briefly to Han as he stood, all other friction between the two men forgotten beneath greater events, though Han didn't know if it was the kid's condition or Indo's private ambitions that fed his apparent concern. Han waited a few moments until they were several steps past before he dropped into pace behind them.

Walking to the medicenter took almost twenty minutes. The kid stopped often, twice simply sitting down in the deserted corridors without comment. Both times, Indo simply waited without watching the kid, looking down the somber, darkened corridors or fastidiously straightening the cloak he wore. Han held back and followed his lead, figuring that Indo had enough familiarity with Luke that he chose to play this down. They made it eventually, and despite the early hour an elderly medic was already waiting, coming out into the corridor to guide the kid to a side room loaded with already active medical paraphernalia.

Han and Indo were ushered out as the kid wordlessly eased himself up onto the scanner bed.

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They were left alone in the brightly lit corridor as the door closed, both looking briefly to the wall-wide sheet of transparisteel before it hazed to privacy. Han had dropped his head to rub at his temples, where a mighty headache was developing, when Indo spoke out quietly beside him without turning.

"I hope you're happy now. I hope you're pleased with yourself."

Han turned. "Me?"

"You know the rules here. You know that this is what happens when Luke tries to avoid or disobey the Emperor's orders. I'd finally steered him on an even keel—years of work—before you came along with your self-righteous questions and your petty little defiances and flouting of the rules, encouraging Luke to do the same. Well, this is what happens—you know that. When you're as far up the ranks as Luke is, the Emperor tolerates no insubordination, no disobedience—none." Indo turned, his lip curling in open hostility. "It's so very easy to encourage him when it's Luke who faces the reprisal, not you, isn't it? I had everything under control, I was making a life for him here, finding a path he could walk without driving himself half-insane…but no. No, you had to interfere. Well take a good look at what it's gained you—what it's gained him. I hope you're proud of yourself."

"A life for him here? There is no life for him here…_this_ is his life here! You're not gonna carve out a niche for him, you're gonna carve him until he fits into a niche!"

The door slid silently aside and the old medic stepped out, glancing behind him. "Perhaps you could shout a little louder, gentlemen; I'm not entirely sure they heard you in the upper turrets."

Han looked down, chagrined, as Indo stepped forward to look into the room. "How is he?"

The medic took another step into the corridor to close the door as Han briefly saw the kid laid on his back, eyes shut, a drip already in his arm.

"Knocks and cuts. He's broken his nose, broken his cheekbone—that's a new one—snapped his clavicle and broken three ribs, all to the front. He has a few relatively minor internal injuries, but nothing that won't heal. I've put him on a diociethylate drip as a precaution against infection, and put a tri-cogeal inhibitor in it, for the spice withdrawal." The medic paused, eyes on Indo. "He's not taking that stuff—not in my medibay. He'll be clean when he leaves…for what it's worth."

Indo nodded. "When will that be?"

"He'll be out in five days. Give him another week before he returns to duties."

"Thank you, Hassett," Indo said, looking to the door.

"We'll be treating the fractures shortly," the medic murmured. "It'll take a few hours for him to come round fully from the anaesthesia, and I imagine he'll sleep for a good few hours after that. You'd be better coming back around midday."

The medic turned to walk away as Indo did the same, and Han stared, not believing what he was hearing. "Wait a minute…that's it? The kid's in a medicenter with internal injuries and broken bones, and that's all you've got to say?"

Hassett didn't even look at Han, instead turning to Indo, his voice dripping cynicism. "He's new around here."

"Relatively," Indo replied.

The medic nodded knowingly. "They all think they can change the galaxy."

Han's voice rose in outrage. "I'll tell you what I think, huh? I think I just heard a medic look at a sixteen-year-old kid with internal injuries and say, '_He's_ broken his nose, snapped his collar bone and broken his ribs', when everyone here knows damn well who actually did it, and it wasn't the kid. Why the hell does everyone just let this stuff happen?"

"Keep your voice down in my medicenter, soldier," the medic growled, finally looking to Han. "You want to shout at someone, you know where you should be heading. If you're real lucky we might meet again, when I'm trying to put you back together…but I wouldn't count on it."

"And that's it?" Han glared, wound up and ready to fight, but no one was interested. Indo simply stared a few seconds more then turned to leave, and the medic looked him up and down with the dismissive confidence that only advanced years could muster.

"If you intend staying in my medicenter, you'd better cool down and pipe down, because I've got no time to be nursing your frustrations… So are you staying, or are you following your boss?"

Han forced his shoulders to relax as he glanced back to the closed door of Luke's room. "I'm staying till he wakes. And Indo's not my boss. I don't give a damn what he thinks."

"Well then that makes two of us," the medic said casually as he turned away.

Han took a step forward as he nodded to the room. "Hey, can you really get him cleaned up? The spice, I mean."

"I always do. If I get a chance when he doesn't realize it, I'll put CTZ dopamine in his drip the last day, as well. He's wise to that one now though, and takes out his drip. If I do get it into him, he won't be able to take any more spice without triggering a gag reflex, but without regular administration the CTZd only lasts around a week or so." The medic glanced down the corridor that Indo had left through, his features hardening. "For all the good that does."

Han followed his gaze. "Actually Indo comes down pretty heavy on the kid about spice—just…in the wrong way."

"Is that a fact?" the medic asked dryly. "Then how come Antilles is detoxing in my medicenter again?"

"Indo's just too… I dunno…he deals with it too head-on. Sneaks round to find the kid's stashes, then waves 'em under his nose and destroys 'em. You know Luke, he's not gonna be put off by that. I'd've thought Indo would've worked that out by now. You can't threaten a kid who…who lives like this." Han looked down, sighing. "I'd just gotten him to the point where he hadn't taken any in a week or so—I'd got him a whole week without any."

"That what he told you?"

"He started again on the way back to Coruscant," Han shrugged. In a way, he couldn't blame the kid; he'd've known exactly what he was coming back to.

The medic straightened. "Well, he'll be clean when he leaves the medicenter. For a week, anyway."

And then it would be back to normal, Han knew—or the warped version of normal that permeated this stark, severe place. He stared at the darkened shadows of the grand palace hallway beyond the white medicenter corridor, then back into the room where the kid lay, quiet and unresponsive.

"I can't stay," he said at last, shaking his head as something constricted within him. "I can't keep standing by and watching this. It's too hard."

"Then go," the medic said levelly. "You won't be the first."

Han turned back to the room, torn, and the medic shrugged, unmoved.

"Go. He won't be surprised. Either people care enough that they can't stay, or they care so little that they do. Either way, he's alone here. He always has been."

Han scowled as the guilt from the medic's observation bit deep then, realizing the old man's eyes studying him, he glared, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "You could do more to help—you know what's going on."

"I know a hell of a lot more than you," Hassett observed without rancor. "And because of that, I can tell you for a fact that you can't help him, son. You can't change things from the outside."

"I'm not on the outside."

"Of this, you are. When you know what's really going on, you'll understand that."

"Well then why don't you tell me," Han pushed, unable to keep the scorn out of his voice.

The ageing medic gave a weary smile as he turned away. "Sorry, son. You don't repeat things, not around here. Not about people who have the power to make you disappear."

"You won't help him?"

Hassett paused. "I help him every time he comes in here. I do what I can, and that's all I can do. If you intend to stay, you'd do well to get the same thing into your head—and let me give you a little tip, in case you decide to hang around. For all the spice that you say Indo goes looking for and destroys, the boy still manages to keep up his habit, doesn't he? Every time he's in here, I treat the breaks and the bruises…and every damn time, I clean him up. But I can tell you for a fact that the day that he leaves, he'll be back on the spice. By the time he reaches his own rooms, he'll go looking for it—and he doesn't have to look very far."

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The days in the medicenter went quickly, egged on by Luke's foot-tapping and finger-drumming, and his constant claims that he was fine now, really. He could probably go. The medic, Hassett, maintained the air of someone who had seen it all before, and found it no more impressive this time round. In fact Han couldn't quite work out what was keeping the kid here at all—save perhaps Indo's constant allusions that when Luke returned to his quarters, his lessons could resume in earnest, with extra hours to make up for those lost.

Today was the kid's last day though, and true to Hassett's predictions, Luke was watching the medic like a hawk.

"What's that?" Luke narrowed his eyes as Hassett paused with the intra-flow syringe he held, preparing to inject it into the drip tube in Luke's arm.

"This is a booster of diociethylate to last the next seven days, in case of infection. The scans are still showing some damage to your kidneys…and not all of it's from injury. As young as you are, you can't keep expecting your body to simply keep taking the misuse you subject it to."

Luke narrowed his eyes, and with the medic's discreet reference to spice, Han knew the kid was checking for the truth in Hassett's claim that the fluid was an anti-infectant. Mollified, he settled just slightly as Hassett injected the clear fluid into the drip line.

"Why don't I get a medidroid like everyone else?"

The medic didn't look up from his task, laconic voice all business. "Because you barely do as I say—if I sent a Four-one-B in here, you'd ignore it completely. The last one I used on you ended up in a heap on the floor with its main logic circuits burned out."

"You shouldn't have been trying to use it to inject me with CTZ then, should you?"

"Would it kill you to go a few weeks without spice?" the medic asked, eyes on his task.

"What do you care?"

"I'm your medic."

"Right," the kid said, disbelieving. "So you're not the one who checks stuff for Indo, then?"

"No, I'm not," the medic said casually, pulling the syringe from the drip. "I'm your medic, not his."

"If you're my medic, then why do you keep trying to put CTZ into me?"

Hassett finally paused to look the kid in the eye. "Because as a medic, son, I can tell you for a fact that the spice'll kill you, eventually…once it's ground that body and that smartass mind of yours into chubb."

The kid tried, he really did, but beneath the shrewd, impassively delivered words of the straight-talking medic, the glare wouldn't come. For once, beneath that knowing gaze, Luke broke first and looked away.

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Leia pulled her hood higher as she walked down the darkened street in the Shades, the same district on Coruscant that she'd first met Luke Antilles. Beside her, making her more aware than ever of her small stature, Chewbacca sauntered along with the kind of confidence that only a Wookiee could have, when walking in the deepest levels of Coruscant's shady underbelly.

He'd greeted the chance to get out on a mission with his usual enthusiasm; his history of experience in working with Jedi before Leia was even born, had meant that he and Leia were often teamed together, and the Wookiee had developed an attachment to her which Leia knew that Obi-Wan secretly felt couldn't hurt in any tight situation, though he'd never said as much to her. Still, Chewie was brave and honorable, and Leia was more than glad to have him along in any mission. The only problem, she reflected wryly, was that he didn't exactly melt into the crowds.

Wookiees seldom left their own planet in any great numbers, a fact that had only added to their mystique, and the Empire had certainly wasted no time in using that to put forward the misinformation that they were insular and intolerant of other species. So nobody had really noticed when they'd ceased to be around almost entirely, their race subjected to a form of legalized slavery in the service of the Empire. After several years disrupting the Empire's slavery program on his own, and having been caught and served time as a slave himself before he'd broken free with the help of that rare being, an Imperial soldier with a conscience, Chewie had eventually come to the conclusion—with a little quiet persuasion from Obi-Wan—that to disrupt just one facet of the Empire wasn't enough; they needed to cut off the head of the monster. He'd joined the Alliance soon after, encouraging others of his clan to lend their own strength to the fight.

So now they were here, on the trail of that rarest of all beings: a Sith with a conscience. Leia had a sneaking suspicion that she'd only been allowed this mission because Obi-Wan was as curious as she was. Whether he even for a moment believed that Luke Antilles could be convinced to help them, she didn't know, but she'd been primed with a very specific task—to find out who Antilles was. That was what Obi-Wan had asked of her, just before they'd set out. No—not just find out who he was, it had been more specific than that…to find out who Antilles _believed_ he was. That was what her Master had said.

An interesting choice of words, but he'd offered no more, so Leia hadn't sought to push him; in her ample experience, her Master could be slippier than a Hutt's slime trail when he didn't want to be tied down.

She looked up to the darkening sky high above, a thin ribbon of amber and blue hemmed in by endless tiers of sheer-sided buildings, which jutted out to cast deep shadows over those unfortunates who dwelled far below. Down here in the Shades, the brooding bulk of the Imperial palace seemed an invulnerable fortress for all its nearness, isolated and impenetrable—as did its inhabitants, Luke Antilles included. But fortunately, Leia had a little help, courtesy of her unfathomable Sith.

Smiling to herself, she recited one more time in her head the comm code that Deak Autrey had given her…

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To be continued…..

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	20. Chapter 20

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**CHAPTER TWENTY**

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They arrived back in Luke's apartment early in the morning, walking through the main enfilade and into Luke's own rooms to the rear of the apartment, Han one step behind Indo, who pushed the repulsor-chair which he'd insisted the kid use despite loud protestations.

The first two rooms were silent and empty, as they always were, save for the bright splashes of many canvases. But the room at the end—Luke's room, where Han had first seen the wide drifts of hundreds upon hundreds of sketches scrawled over months or even years on every inch of reachable wall space—was unrecognizable.

The bed which had been dragged into the far corner to create that small, safe den which the kid had slept in, had been straightened and pushed to the center of the wall beneath raised privacy blinds, neatly made, its starched cover turned back. The chest of drawers that had been emptied and left askew, its drawers upturned to cover with more drawings was gone, to be replaced by another entirely. And the walls…the walls were pristine white, not a sign of their previous state left, the endless sketches which must have been scrawled hour on hour in the dark of many nights all gone without a trace.

Han stopped dead in shock, staring. It had been the only room in this whole dismal, austere apartment which had seemed in any way connected to the kid. Everything else had always seemed like a museum or a stately home, antique furnishings arranged in static, unvarying groups to best show off the room or themselves, no sense of anyone at all living there, let alone a kid. Yes, Luke's room had been unsettling and surreal, an outpouring of all that he kept so tightly hidden, but at least it was Luke; it was what was actually going on in the kid's head, it was his one retreat.

Han's eyes went to him, still sitting in the repulsor-chair that Indo pushed forward. His head lifted as he glanced about the room, but the outrage that Han had expected—that he felt himself right now, on the kid's behalf—didn't come.

Instead he simply looked about, calm and quiet. "We may be in the wrong apartment."

"I had thought that perhaps you would have been accompanied into the room by medics," Indo said, no hint of an apology in his tone.

"Right, sure," Luke stated evenly.

Indo stopped the repulsor-chair before the bed and the kid climbed in without comment, rolling onto his side and pulling the covers up about his head. "Dial the window light down as you leave," he said coolly.

The Viscount stood for a few seconds more, but Luke didn't turn, and eventually he walked to the door, pausing to darken the privacy shields in the windows. Han turned to go with him, but as he reached the door, Luke spoke out again. "Han…stay?"

Han glanced at the Viscount, whose sabacc stare cracked just slightly to pinched features and narrowed eyes. Lifting his chin, Han turned about and walked back into the room, pulling a chair from against the wall to sit closer to the bed, though the kid didn't speak again for a long time.

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Luke's second day back in his apartment started off as quiet as his first. Han had wandered down and into his private rooms just in time to see Luke making a dash back for the bed he was supposed to be sleeping in, one arm wrapped around himself to support broken ribs. Frowning, Han had glanced to the wall of the pristine room—and saw the first two sketches already made, small and close to the corner, in the spot where he knew the kid generally slept. Without pausing, but without making a big deal of it, Han walked straight over and crouched to view them. It was the medic Hassett, and Han, dressed only in a white shirt, marking the memory as being from the night that Han had sat with the kid and stared at the canvas. Sure enough, half-drawn behind the two sketches, was a rough rendition of the calligraphy that was on the canvas in the next room.

"So…the reason you don't like Hassett is that he tries to keep you off the spice, right?"

"No, the reason I don't like Hassett is that he gives me some self-righteous lecture every time I go in there, then forgets me the other three hundred and fifty days of the year, because it's more convenient that way. I don't know why he dislikes Indo so much—they have a lot in common."

Han ignored all of that, sticking with his own opinion. "He said you wouldn't need to go far for spice when you got back here."

Luke looked down, pulling the sheets a little higher, and Han sighed. "How much have you had?"

The kid looked up, offended. "None."

"None? Seriously?"

"Thanks for your faith."

"Faith? I'm actually speechless—and impressed."

Even that much praise sat uneasily with the kid, who cast about for something to say. "Yeah, well…I'm bored."

"Bored?"

"Bored," the kid repeated. "You know, bored."

"Well, go do something."

"I can't. _Something_ is generally spice, and since you're responsible for me not doing what I normally do, you have to entertain me."

Han glanced to the single inactive datapad abandoned on the bed. He knew that Luke had spent some time trying to track the possible conection they'd found between Vader and Tatooine, but here in the palace, it was difficult to do. All datapads were connected in to the main hub, and access to was routinely monitored for key words, Luke had casually informed him.

Somehow, he didn't think the kid would leave it there, though. He'd already pulled bits and pieces down, under the guise of investigating the Rebel, Darklighter. "What about your lessons?"

"Do you _see_ Indo standing next to my elbow, nagging me?" When Han still stared, Luke shrugged. "I'm still recuperating…the medic gave me another three days yet."

"Why don't you do a few anyway, if you're bored?"

"You're starting to sound like Indo," Luke dug. "If I say I'm well enough to do one then believe me, he'll say I'm clearly well enough to do twelve hours a day."

"Not interested, huh?" Han walked round to sit on the chair near the bed, still bemused by the normality of the room.

"I feel that the educational establishment and I are coming to a natural denouement," Luke said dryly.

"After ten years?" Han disparaged.

"Five, actually. I didn't start until I was eleven. That's why Indo thinks I have to make up for lost time…and then some."

"Why didn't you…" Han broke off, already knowing the answer. "You were with Palpatine."

The kid glanced down. "You don't like him, do you?"

"It's got nothin' to do with like," Han shrugged. "It's about how he treats people."

"By people, you mean me?"

"No, I mean people, everywhere. I mean Toprawa, I mean Alderaan…I mean the construction of the Death Star."

Luke frowned, jaw tightening, and Han pressed on. "Don't tell me you don't think the same sometimes. Why else didn't you tell me about the Wookiee slaves for so long?"

The kid chewed his thumbnail, but Han remained silent, so eventually he murmured, "It gets easier—to deal with."

"No it doesn't, not really, does it? Painting it over isn't dealing with it, no matter what Indo seems to think." Han glanced across the spotless walls to the first dark smudge beneath the far window. "You can see that already."

Luke looked up, face a mixture of betrayal and indignation, and Han shook his head. "I didn't mean that. Well I did, but not like… Ah, you know what I mean. I just don't…I don't understand why you stay."

Luke scowled, instantly troubled, so Han tried again. "C'mon, you must have one hell of a reason." Han dipped slightly, trying to meet Luke's eye as he lowered his head further in avoidance.

"It's between me and Palpatine and it has to...to stay that way."

"He tell you that?"

The kid drew his knees up and rocked slightly forwards and backwards in the bed, mouth tightly shut. This wasn't simply another evasion, Han knew. It wasn't his usual reticence; it ran deeper.

"Listen to me, of course you cantell people. What d'you think'll happen? Indo didn't walk away, did he?"

"Indo doesn't know."

Han fell silent a beat; kid told Indo everything.

"Well then, tell me." Hoping to break the moment with humor as he had done so many times before, Han tried, "Seriously, what could you tell me that's worse than what I know?"

Luke glanced to him, momentarily mortified, but Han held steady. "I told you, I'm not gonna just turn around and walk away. And if that means I'm stuck in this damn uniform and in this dismal, miserable cavern of a building, I at least want to know why. I think I deserve that much."

"You don't understand, do you? This is his galaxy—_his_. He owns everything in it."

"He doesn't own me."

"No? You're wearing his uniform and enforcing his word as law. The Oath of Allegiance you recited when you joined up was to an image of him, in front of two Imperial flags. The pay you draw is from his authorized offices, and you live under his roof. Are you sure?"

Han tapped his head. "I mean up here."

"Really? So you're saying the Oath of Allegiance you made with the words, 'unto death' in it, meant nothing to you?"

Han shook his head, knowing this was something that would need more work than any one argument could achieve…and wondering whether maybe he didn't have the answers to those questions himself. He thought briefly of his promise on Dewlanna's death, to repay the debt he owed her. To the unknown Wookiee slave he'd risked his career to save; to Bria Tharen's death at Toprawa; to the kid who'd done that in Palpatine's name, and who still held unwavering loyalty to him even when he'd put Luke in a medicenter…and it was getting harder every day to hold to that Imperial Oath, made to a malicious old man who had no such honor himself—Han knew that now. So what kept _him_ here?

He looked to the kid, still agitated and uneasy at Han even coming close to the truth, aware that it was a promise he'd made to someone else entirely…someone he wouldn't let down.

Luke frowned under Han's scrutiny, perhaps sensing the play of his emotions. "What?"

Han hesitated, not quite knowing how to start… "You know, Shrike… I grew up under his hand, and he was a short-tempered, loud-mouthed, vicious—"

"You should probably stop right there." There was humor in the kid's words…but he meant it.

"I'm just sayin', Shrike…his word was law and he made damn sure you understood that. Took any opportunity to underline it. Son of a nek never once pulled a punch or gave a single inch when…"

"Is there a point to this?"

"Point is, I walked out of there. Turned my life around. It wasn't easy, because I didn't even know that I wanted it, let alone needed it. I just…I realized that whatever the hell it was that I wanted from my life, it wasn't that. And it didn't _have to_ be that—no matter what Shrike said."

The kid turned away, quiet for long moments as he considered. "This Shrike…did he come after you?"

"A few times. Like I said, it wasn't easy…but I don't for one minute regret it."

A standard non-military comlink chimed, muffled by distance, and both ignored it

"And this Shrike, did he have the whole Imperial fleet—every military base, every border, every trooper, every agent and every bounty hunter at his disposal?"

Han hesitated, and the kid nodded without looking, those old eyes far too knowing. "Thought so."

"You can't…" That chime again, and Han frowned. "What is that—is that you?"

"No, I thought it was…oh!" The kid lunged up, then let out a yelp, grasping at his broken ribs as he doubled up. Han set instantly forward.

"What is it? What!"

"Not me, the floorboard—go to the third floorboard from the far wall, this side!" One arm wrapped about his ribs, Luke gestured to the floor as Han strode quickly to the corner, aware that the chime was getting louder.

"Here? Where is it, where am I supposed to be looking?"

"Floorboard—under the floorboard!"

"You're kidding me." Han crouched, counting three in from the wall. "How do I get it open?"

"Stand at the window side and press with your toe against the plank, right at the wall—hurry up!"

Han toed the floorboard and the far end lifted. Underneath were a mix of bits and pieces—several styluses, a small wooden box, a piece of rolled flimsiplast…and the comlink the kid had bought from a street vendor when they'd last gone to meet Leia Skywalker. It chimed again, and Han picked it up. "What do I do?"

"Answer it!"

As Han lifted it to his mouth, not sure what the hell he would say, the comlink cut off.

Luke collapsed back down into his pillows in exasperation. "Great, fantastic."

"Well if you didn't leave it under the floor…"

"Indo would take it off me. Or at the very least, have a mirror receiver set up to monitor all messages."

The comlink pipped again, a brief message-waiting tone. "You got a message."

"Play it on speaker."

Han walked back, passing the comlink over for the kid to retrieve the message. After a short pip, a woman's voice came on, wary and reserved.

"Deak Autrey… I know who you really are. What I don't know is why you did what you did. I need to speak to you, face to face. If you want that, then meet me where we spoke before, an hour before midnight tonight."

The message cut with another pip as Luke began keying through the comlink's menus. "Scrambled—probably high-end military. I'd need a few more messages to be able to trace it back to her frequency, even using Ubiqtorate programs."

"Is this a good time for me to point out that it would be an insanely bad idea for you to speak to her?"

"I'm not going to," Luke said. "You are."

"Like all hells I am."

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"Oh, and don't talk about me—don't let her lead the conversation in that direction," Luke said pointedly.

It was nightfall, and Han's shift had finished hours ago, but he was up in the kid's room, getting the final low-down on the do's and don'ts of speaking to a Jedi. He'd argued not to go, of course. In fact he'd gotten as far as walking to the window with the comlink in his hand, intending to throw the damn thing out, but had been stymied by the fact that all of the windows in this room seemed to have been screwed shut, lighting a brief memory of the kid claiming to have climbed all over the outside of the palace. Han could just imagine Indo employing that unique brand of blunt Indo-logic, and figuring that this'd stop the kid.

He'd given it another few minutes of arguing, but when Luke had started to go all tight-mouthed and told him to forget it, Han knew that he'd just wait until everyone was asleep and then try to haul his ass down to the cantina himself, broken bones and all.

So now, he was getting his final prep—because if he didn't go, the kid sure as hell would. That and the fact that while he was there, Han figured he had a few home truths to tell about what had happened to the kid because of the Death Star's destruction, even without that yellow-eyed Sithspawn knowing that Luke had shot Vader off the woman's back—though that could be difficult to voice if he wasn't allowed to mention the kid at all.

"How can I not talk about you when that's clearly the only reason she's here?"

He'd've claimed that this seemed a more ridiculous and precarious situation the nearer it got, but actually it had seemed both of those right from the offset.

"Just arrange another meeting." The kid had his most soothing voice on, which meant he figured pretty much the same. "Tell her I do want to talk to her face to face, but I'm…indisposed. Don't say why. And tell her I'll know if she tries to read your thoughts."

Han frowned. "Yeah, about that…"

"She won't," Luke reassured. "Not if you tell her not to, and remember what I taught you about misdirection. We went through this ages ago, on the _Immortal_…you have been practicing it since then, haven't you?"

"Sure, yeah."

The kid raised an eyebrow, but pushed on. "She'll sense general emotions, but keep in mind that you can confuse that by just being aware of what you're thinking; attribute existing emotions to other things. If you're nervous that she'll realize what we're doing, tell her you're nervous, but tell her it's because you don't want to get caught speaking to her. She'll know you're nervous—she'll pick up on that as soon as you're close enough—but if you've connected the reason to something else, she may take it at face value."

"I don't think I _do_ know what you're doing."

"That's good, tell her that."

"I'm serious."

"And don't let her lead your thoughts. If you think she's trying to lead you, you need to take control; put a strong thought in your own head to break the line of thought she's leading you along—think of her naked, or something."

"Great, now I'm not gonna be able to get that out of my head the whole time," Han muttered.

"She's a Jedi and you've done nothing wrong. They have a strict code—if you tell her not to read your thoughts, she shouldn't."

"Shouldn't or won't?"

"More to the point, if she starts trying to utilize the Force this close to the palace, tell her Palpatine will pick up on it. And don't lie to her."

Han tilted his head, but the kid was adamant.

"As long as you don't tell a direct lie, you can still conceal facts. An outright lie can be detected, but unless she specifically goes into your thoughts, misdirection is harder to pin down, because it could be for so many reasons."

"What do I say when she asks me if you're Sith?"

The kid blinked twice, youthful face a picture of hurt and innocence. "Do you think I'm Sith?"

"I dunno—are you?"

That blameless countenance melted instantly, replaced by a more familiar, worldly grin. "There you go, you don't know."

"I'm getting a headache."

"It's fine—it works. Indo uses misdirection on me all the time, and it drives me insane."

"I think that's just Indo in general."

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Han stepped quickly out of the speeder-cab and into the Bad Break Cantina, intending to be seen by as few people as possible. He'd taken three different ones to get down here, and walked a few streets in between, and was pretty sure he wasn't being followed. But there was no point in taking chances.

She was sitting on the same high stool, in the same smoky, dingy cantina, with her back to the door—but then, maybe she didn't need to actually be watching it to know who was coming through, Han figured. Certainly when he got closer, he saw her shoulders brace a little beneath that same heavy mouse-brown cloak she wore.

"Hey." What else could he say? He didn't really know how to approach someone under these circumstances. In fact, he wasn't even all that sure just what these circumstances were.

She turned to glance to him, then back to the door. "Where is he?"

He wanted to tell her the truth; how much trouble the kid had gotten into, the injuries he'd received—not for helping her, that would have been far worse, had Palpatine known the truth—but just for failing to stop her. But Luke had been adamant; nothing about him—nothing at all. Stick to the script. "He…told me to say he was indisposed."

"With the Emperor?"

"More…because of."

"I know who he is—who you both are."

Han shrugged. "Let's just agree that there was a little dishonesty on all sides, shall we?" He put his hand out. "Han Solo."

She looked at it, then back at him. "Leia Skywalker—but then you already knew that."

"Alright, alright. You win that one."

Those big brown eyes took him in, leaving him feeling uneasy. "He, uh…he said to tell you that he'd know if you tried to read my thoughts. More to the point, he said that this close to the palace, the Emperor would…I dunno, pick it up or somethin'."

"A good point," she conceded, still studying him. "Not because of Palpatine, because of him. He never told the Emperor that I was on Coruscant, did he? Why?"

"You're gonna have to ask him that."

"I would, but he's not here."

"I know. I have the same problem with him, constantly."

She frowned, and it made a small wrinkle between her eyebrows as those big doe-eyes regarded him. _Don't think of her naked…_ "Damnit!"

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. So…uh…yeah. Here we are."

"Why did he help me, over the Death Star?"

"I don't think he knows himself."

"No? How about why didn't he hand me in, when I was on Coruscant? Does he not know that, either?"

"That's between you and him. I'm just here because he had no way to contact you to change the meet time, but he knew he couldn't make it. He didn't want you to think he'd not shown up by choice."

"How do you know him?"

"I'm his adjutant."

"Really?" She arched one eyebrow at him, and there was almost humor in her disbelief. "Because our Intel says you're a TIE pilot."

"I was a TIE pilot. Now I'm an adjutant."

"That's quite a promotion, overnight."

"What d'ya want, my life history?"

The edges of her lips tweaked at his indignation. "Would you?"

Han couldn't help but smile. "It's a long story."

"I have time."

"You're kidding me. You know, if you go straight up sixty stories, you can actually see the Imperial Palace from here."

"Yet here I am, talking to a Sith's adjutant…and still in one piece."

"Don't look at me, Doll, I have no idea what he's doing." Han considered a moment. "Which isn't uncommon."

That appealing little frown remained…and Han shook his head as unwanted images drifted into his thoughts again. "Okay, I got a question for you…why do you want to see him?"

"You haven't answered mine yet," she said gamely. "And I've told you why—I want to know why he did what he did. And I want to…to know if I can help him."

Han glanced away. "Good luck with that, Sweetheart. I've been tryin' for a while now."

Her eyes narrowed. "Trying how?"

This wasn't going so well. How had the kid managed to persuade her so easily last time? Then again, she hadn't known that he was a Sith and Han was a soldier at the time.

"Look, I've told you all I can." Han glanced about. "We should…we should probably go."

"Nervous?"

"Hell yeah, I'd get the death sentence for speaking to you!"

"Afraid you'll leak some military secrets?" she teased, amused.

"Believe me, Sweetheart, where I come from the if's and but's don't matter a whole hell of a lot. I could get it just for being here."

"And Luke Antilles?"

Han paused, quieting. "You have no idea how much he's already risked for you."

That frown again, which wrinkled her brow above shrewd eyes that were just a little too perceptive for Han's comfort. The kid's words floated back into Han's head, about breaking his own line of thought by… "Damnit! Okay, I gotta go."

He backed up a step, and she stood…and she was tiny, barely shoulder height to him. Han paused, taken aback. "Y'know, you guys are never what I think you'll be." She looked at him quizzically, and he glanced quickly down. "After you."

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His first indication as they stepped out and he glanced about streets so deep beneath Coruscant's spires that they existed always in twilight darkness, was the vague awareness of a mild commotion in the shadows nearby. Out of the corner of his eye, Han saw someone rush forward—someone big.

Before him, Leia's eyes opened wide as she lifted her arms, yelling, "_No!"_

Han swung about, going for the gun he'd carried concealed in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket—

He wasn't nearly fast enough. The Wookiee was on him in an instant, bellowing as it wrapped huge, hirsute arms about him from behind, pinning one of Han's arms to his body and the other, which had been going for the blaster, awkwardly against his own face as it lifted him clean off the ground.

Leia had lunged forward to pull at the howling Wookiee's arms, for all the good it would do. "Chewie, wait! Don't hurt…what?"

Han heard that last too, as he struggled to turn and see through his own fingers. "Ho, wait a minute, I'm who?"

Leia looked back to him, shocked. "You speak Shyriiwook? Chewie—Chewie, put him down."

Finally lowered from the stifling bear-hug, Han turned—and sure enough, it was the same Wookiee slave that he'd earned himself a court-martial for helping half a year ago. It clapped one huge hand onto his shoulder, chuntering as it leaned in to loom over him.

Han tried a weak smile. "Uh…Chewie…Chewbacca, right?"

The Wookiee grinned, showing wide rows of white teeth with huge canines, before loosing another long run of broken barks.

"Owe me? Nah, you don't owe me nothin'." Han knew what a Wookiee life-debt was, and couldn't really see himself getting that far back inside the Imperial palace with a Wookiee in tow. That was the reason he'd snuck off last time too, when he'd helped the massive Wookiee; not much room for a Wook in his old squadron's bunkroom, either. "Seriously, we're quits."

Leia's eyes were on Chewie now. "So wait, this is the same pilot who helped you…you're sure?"

Han turned, affronted. "Thanks a lot."

She tipped her head in amusement…but reappraising him; Han could see it in those big brown eyes. "Well, aren't you just full of surprises, Lieutenant Han Solo, the regular TIE pilot who happens to be a Sith's adjutant, and lets Rebels take pot-shots at the Emperor's Death Star—_and_ helps Wookiee slaves in his spare time."

Han tried a grin. "I'm a complicated man."

"Really?" She leaned back, folding her arms as her voice turned teasing. "Because I had you down as a simple man in a complicated situation."

"Don't sell me short, Sweetheart."

She wrestled a genuine smile from her face, looking down to hide it.

The Wookiee leaned in again with a barked question, and Han turned quickly.

"No, seriously, we're quits." Han was pulled helplessly in by one great big arm about his shoulder, hearing the edge of desperation in his own voice as he spoke, his next words to Leia broken almost indecipherably as the Wookiee shook him companionably. "Tell him we're quits."

"I don't know," she said wryly. "I think you have a friend for life, there."

"Can he be a long-distance friend?" Han tried to turn his head, but the Wookiee had him held so tight that he could barely move. "I like long-distance friendships."

The Wookiee hucked a laugh, shaking him affably one last time before he released Han to put a hand on Leia's shoulder, as she nodded in confirmation of his words.

"Well, since Chewie committed to help the Alliance, to free all his kind in honor of what you did for him, you're off the hook, Solo. From him, at any rate. And now you have at least one glowing recommendation of your integrity."

"Yeah? It change your view of me?" And why did that even matter?

"I'm still thinking about it." She smiled genuinely, and it lit up her face like a nova. "In the meantime, when will I see Antilles again?"

Han shrugged. "He'll be up and about in a few days, I guess—and I'm figuring he'll want to see you sooner rather than—"

"Up and about? What do you mean?"

Han felt his composure slip a crack and struggled to get his thoughts into gear, aware that he'd allowed himself to be taken off guard by that smile. _Got to remember she's a Jedi._

"You gotta speak to him about that. Will you make the meet?"

"Can I trust him?"

"You're asking me?"

"I'm asking the man who Chewbacca says saved his life."

Han glanced away, uncomfortable. He was happier when she'd been suspicious. "I do."

She set her head on one side. "You're very good at not answering questions, Han Solo."

"Thanks, he's been priming me all evening."

"So can I trust him?"

Han pursed his lips as he scratched at the back of his head, disinclined to lie to the feisty little brunette. "He throws the occasional curve-ball, but like I said, I trust him."

"You're not a Jedi hiding out a stone's throw from the Imperial palace."

"No, but you are—and like you said, you're still in one piece, even though he knows you're here. Three days' time, at ten in the evening—the alleyway opposite the public G-free dome, two stories down. Will you meet him?"

"I'll meet him." She glanced about and pulled the hood of her heavy cloak up, hiding her youthful features. "Don't be late."

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Han walked quickly through the main esplanade in the kid's apartment, not wishing to be caught by Indo and trying to keep the bag he'd brought with him tucked under his arm and out of sight. He'd expected to have to go clean through to the kid's rooms, but he saw Luke look up from a chair by the window in the Red Room, a datapad resting on his knees. Han had learned a while ago that Indo had all the datapads that Luke used routinely wiped of any drawing program before they were first handed over.

Luke instantly put the pad down. "How did it go?"

"Fine. She'll meet in three days' time, like you asked." Han paused, then walked over to hold the bag out awkwardly. "Here, I got you something."

The kid took it slowly, eyes remaining on Han for a few seconds more before he finally pulled the bag open with one finger, as if it might explode in his hands…then he reached inside and lifted out the traditional fabric-bound sketchpad and its accompanying pack of graphite sticks.

He looked quizzically at Han, who glanced away, uncomfortable. It had seemed such a good idea at the time. "You can't just draw on anything. You need proper paper. Good quality, hand-made paper. Even I know that."

Luke opened the sketchpad to the first sheet of thick ivory paper, running his fingers over its heavy-toothed surface in silence.

"The guy in the store said you should use graphite too, to draw with, not any old stylus you can fleece somebody out of."

"I've never drawn with graphite," the kid said as he opened the narrow box to look inside.

"Well then I guess it's about time you learned."

Luke glanced abruptly back down the enfilade. "If Indo finds out…"

"I'm sure you'll find somewhere to hide it. Open up another floorboard, maybe."

The kid grinned—the first time Han had seen him do so since their return to Coruscant. "It's a lot bigger than a box of spice."

"But a lot better for you."

"I don't think Indo would agree."

Han glanced away. "Yeah, well, it wouldn't be the first point we've argued on."

"I don't know what to say."

Kid genuinely didn't, Han could see that. He looked afresh at the generic, impersonal décor of the stark apartment, his mind going to the rooms beyond the mirrored door—Luke's rooms…all completely empty.

"Say, 'Thanks, I'll try using it instead of the nearest available flat surface'."

"Thank you—very much."

Han narrowed his eyes. "The wall thing?"

"Let's not get carried away."

They were silent a moment; a comfortable, companionable silence, before Han glanced down. "So…she wants to talk. Wants to know why you helped her."

"Did you tell her?"

"Me? I don't even know what you're doing on a good day, let alone…then."

"Do you think she read your thoughts?"

"I dunno, you tell me?"

"At that distance? I have no idea."

Han straightened. "You said you'd know."

Luke shrugged. "I thought it best you go in there with a little confidence—even if it was unfounded."

"Thanks…Thanks a lot."

The kid glanced down. "I shouldn't meet with her. If Palpatine finds out…"

Han remained silent as pale blue eyes now stared at him instead of those big brown ones, set with that same shrewd judgment.

"What, no 'Finally, you're seeing sense'?"

"I dunno…she seems genuine enough."

"You've changed your tune."

Han glanced down. "I think she wants to help you."

Luke leaned back, arms crossing to wrap about his body. "She doesn't give a damn about me. As far as she's concerned I'm a Sith who uses my abilities in support of the Emperor, and that makes me her enemy. Remember that."

"Maybe she's different," Han said with a shrug. "You are."

Luke scowled, voice hardening. "Don't. Don't try to convince yourself that I'm something I'm not."

"You sure I'm the one you should be saying that to?" Han asked quietly.

The kid stared…but the hard glare fell slowly to something more evasive as he looked down uneasily...then rose and walked from the room in silence.

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Leia knew long before he reached the head of the side-street where she waited. She knew streets away that he was coming, his sense—the presence that had been so completely muted previously—now a blaring declaration of the abilities he'd kept so perfectly shrouded.

The alleyway was a long dead end on a busy street almost seventy stories down from the main concourse, offering night-time entertainment to suit every taste. The street that it connected onto sparked with fritzing signs and the effervescent glow of city life that could have been any entertainment district on any Core world, but ten steps down this dead end the shadows were already thickening, and the noise of the street and the bustle of the youths who had taken this part of The Shades for their own, already dropped to an indifferent background murmur.

She turned as he reached the head of the alleyway, Solo at his back, as ever. He looked straight at her, his face hidden, silhouetted by the glare of the blinking lights beyond…and right in front of her, his presence in the Force ebbed and faded, evaporating to nothing and leaving him just another anonymous face in the crowd. Anyone, anywhere.

Was it a taunt, she wondered? Or was it simply defensive? Because by the time he'd stepped closer, leaving Solo at the head of the alleyway, eyes on the street beyond, he'd wrapped himself tightly about, a thousand barriers in place—but subtly; deftly. A skillful defense which fit like a second skin.

Leia tipped her head to one side as he came closer, unable to quite remove the dryness which Obi-Wan would have so disapproved of, from her voice. "Well if it isn't Deak Autrey."

The weak glow of the street signs barely illuminated a brief smile on his features—and somehow, it didn't look nearly as naïve as the last time she'd seen it. "Well if it isn't 'I'm just looking for a friend who works at Sinto Barracks, I won't get anyone into trouble'."

Though he said it with amusement, Leia's eyes narrowed at the counter-accusation. "You said you weren't in the military."

"I'm not."

"You're Ubiqtorate!"

"We're not the military."

"Ubiqtorate run the military," Leia rebuffed knowingly.

"No, the military run themselves. We just give them direct orders sometimes." That faint smile widened, though the tone of his voice remained coolly urbane, no trace of the eager youth that Leia had met previously. "Actually running them would take up far too much of our valuable time."

"You're splitting hairs."

There was a wary fascination in his eyes as he looked her up and down. "In my defense, I didn't know who the hell you were when we started speaking."

"So you just lied to me on principle?"

"No, I lied to you because I was trying to uncover a Rebel insurgent."

Leia took a mental step back at that, as curiosity cooled her initial belligerence and set her thoughts and intentions back on track. "And you found one—but you didn't hand me in. Why?"

"Because I realized you were a Jedi."

"Yet you still didn't hand me in. Why?"

Antilles tried a game grin. "You're a 'glass is half empty' kind of person, aren't you?"

She wasn't willing to be pulled off subject so easily. "Why won't you answer? It's a simple question."

He glanced down, seeming uneasy for the first time. "Because I don't have a simple answer."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I'm here, now…why don't you just draw the lightsaber you have concealed at the small of your back and try your luck? I very much doubt it, but you never know, you might actually kill me."

"Why would I? You've done nothing to make me believe you're any real threat to me."

"Still, that's what you're supposed to do when you come across a Sith, aren't you…" He tilted his head, though his tone was more perceptive than challenging. "Or is it more complicated than that?"

Leia glanced down, her voice quieting as a little more of the wariness Obi-Wan had sought to instill in her gave way to curiosity. "You must know why you helped me over the Death Star. You knew it was me, didn't you?"

"Not until you were in the trench. Why were you hiding your presence?"

"Because Vader was there and…my job was to make the trench run, not play out some ancient Jedi-Sith grudge match."

He studied her, eyes narrowing, leaving Leia to worry that he'd sensed her sidestep. She held his eye without blinking, aware that her own shields were in full force…and he shrugged, loosing a wicked grin. "I don't know, I've found it's always worth taking any opportunity for a potshot at Vader."

She stared, confused at the animosity in his voice…then shook her head. "Why did you fire on another TIE—please?"

Antilles softened a little at the last, then frowned. "I would have let Vader take the shot if I'd known what you'd do next."

"You knew why I was there. The Death Star had already killed hundreds of thousands—destroyed an entire planet—I sensed it."

"And you didn't sense those on the Death Star, when you destroyed that?" There was an edge to his voice though he was trying hard to hide it.

"Yes, I did, and I regret it deeply—regret its necessity—but…" Leia paused as realization hit her. "You sensed it too, didn't you?"

"Of course I did."

She quietened, curiosity taking hold of her again. "What…what did you feel?"

"I felt the same as you did—or do you think I'm some kind of monster that feels nothing?"

"I think you're Sith." She allowed no accusation in her quietly spoken words. "Am I wrong?"

He hesitated at the hope that Leia had allowed to creep into her voice, and though his next words were meant as a challenge, they'd lost their bite. "Do you expect me to apologize for that?"

"I simply want to understand why a Sith did what you did. What's going on in that head of yours, Luke Antilles, that you'd help a Jedi, and regret those deaths?"

He lifted his chin as if she'd levelled an insult. "I'll tell you what I regret—I regret giving you the opportunity to take that shot and destroy the Death Star. I regret that I was the one who had to go back and tell my Master."

"I wish I'd been there." Leia sensed a flare of outrage from Solo, where he stood at the head of the alley. When she glanced at him he looked quickly away, though he desperately wanted to say something—she could sense it quite clearly.

It was Luke who spoke though, cool words issued with a distant smile. "You should have told me. I'd gladly have swapped places with you."

She hesitated a second, shrewd enough to recognize a subtext even if she didn't know what it was, and reminded all over again just who she was dealing with. He smiled a great deal, as most of the men of his age that Leia knew on countless Rebel bases did…but there was no joy here; no youthful exuberance or flirtatious fun in those ready smiles, which lit his face but never his eyes. They, like his sense in the Force, remained always calculating and impenetrable. "Speaking of Masters, mine tells me that I shouldn't trust you—that you have ulterior motives."

"Your Master?"

"Kenobi."

His reaction was instant, a wildfire flare of emotions that tore through him, overwhelming all barriers for just an instant; resentment and fascination and grief—actual grief—though nothing showed on his face. Instead, the internal turmoil was clamped down on with iron will, so that all that was left was a brief widening of his eyes as the muscles about them twitched, then relaxed to that dispassionate gaze again, distant and wary.

"Your Master…is Kenobi."

"That's right."

He hesitated, seeming to Leia to be testing the water somehow. "And you don't see the irony in standing here, telling me that?"

"Should I?"

"No…no, not at all." Again that undertone of hidden implications, as private knowledge shaped another half-smile. "As it happens, your Master's right. I do have ulterior motives."

"Go on?"

He paused…and something seemed to take him, an uncertainty that went to the very core of him, quieting his voice and dropping his head as that shrewd smile melted away. "I know there's so much that my own Master can't or won't answer. Answers I need to make sense of my life…of my loyalties." He frowned, his manner that of someone daring to speak a terrible truth for the first time. "Answers I'm beginning to wonder whether Kenobi has."

The moment stretched in silence, the distant hustle of the street fading to nothing as Leia stared, trying to judge the weight of his words against Master Kenobi's constant warnings, senses straining to the limit against those impervious shields in search of even an inkling of the doubt that had come so easily into his voice…too easily, perhaps?

A delicate, barely felt prickle skittered up her spine, making her lean back subconsciously…

He frowned, not lifting his head as he murmured quietly, "I lost you, didn't I?"

His voice had changed completely from near-breaking to wryly knowing, and Leia blinked at the difference, struggling to regain her equilibrium, though she had no intention of letting him know that. Finally she hid her disquiet behind a knowing tip her head. "Pretty much."

"Damnit!" He straightened, more amused than repentant, no trace of compunction in his voice. "Where did I lose you? It was the 'Answers I need to make sense of my life' bit, wasn't it? I heard it as I said it, but…"

She raised one eyebrow, quietly proud of the inkling of misgivings which had given her reason to doubt. "Well, at least you stuck with it."

"I briefly thought about bursting into tears—despair, you know—but you don't seem the overly sentimental type. So much for all that Jedi compassion."

"We tend to save that for people who mean what they say."

"Please," he grinned, "that was exactly what you wanted to hear."

"Yes! If it was true."

Luke glanced impatiently to the side. "Fine, you know what? I need a drink. Do you need a drink?"

She hesitated, head spinning at this latest about-turn in tactics. "I don't drink."

"Neither do I." Antilles took two long steps backwards to rest a hand on Solo's shoulder and turn him about. "But Han here is dying for one, and he knows a great cantina a block from here. Best to get off the open streets anyway. Tell your Wookiee friend who's standing point in that alleyway over there that he's welcome. Han has a soft spot for…"

Solo glanced down and Antilles broke off to turn to him, obviously sensing that same flare of guilt that Leia had—and more, judging from his next words.

"You're kidding me. How the hell do you know him?"

Solo looked up. "Would you stop reading my—"

"Please, you practically blurted that out. You may as well have said it out loud anyway." He pushed on without pause, leaving Leia relieved that he hadn't sensed her own momentary shock at Chewie's detection. "How do you get to the Blue Lekku from here?"

Solo jerked straighter, seeming shocked. "Seriously?"

"Maybe you're right."

The comfortable comradeship between the two men was obvious—more than Leia would have expected between a Sith and…anyone. She wondered silently at her own father, eyes narrowing as she looked afresh at Luke Antilles, realizing that for the first time, she was looking at someone who was in daily contact with her father as he was now—as Darth Vader.

A well of curiosity sprang up inside her at that, for the first time in years. Obi-Wan spoke of her father little and in such remorseful terms that Leia had never pressed him, and she knew all that Vader had done, but…this man too was unapologetically Sith, and yet he seemed so…

Antilles grinned, genial as ever. "Bad Break Cantina it is, then." He turned, stepping back to clear Leia's path. "I believe you already know the way to that one?"

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Sitting in a booth to the rear of the Bad Break Cantina, semi-darkened now that the kid had distinguished the glow-light in the center of the table with a brief stare and tip of his chin, Han reflected that he didn't know about the Jedi sitting opposite him, but his own head was spinning at the fast turn-around of the kid's tactics. He'd tried two or three in quick succession back there, more than willing to drop each one the moment that he perceived of them as failing, leaving Han, if not Leia, struggling to keep up—but then maybe that was the point…for the Jedi, not him; he was just collateral damage, Han reflected wryly.

He glanced to the Wookiee who sat opposite him in the booth. Already watching him, Chewbacca grinned affably, white teeth in the low light, seeming altogether too pleased that he had met up with Han again. Sitting beside Chewie, the diminutive Leia Skywalker seemed elegantly tiny and delicate, even when she straightened indignantly, that dainty little frown wrinkling her brow.

"I know how to use the Force," she claimed authoritatively; something Luke must have said had clearly put her on the defensive yet again. "You've only been taught how to misuse it."

Luke grinned, unfazed. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

She took a breath to argue, then stopped; visibly reined herself in—Han saw it quite clearly. He smiled inwardly, impressed despite himself. The kid could generally push pretty much anyone's buttons if he was actually trying, and for all the fact that she was a Jedi, Leia Skywalker was quite the little firebrand…yet she hadn't let herself get dragged any further into that one.

When she lifted her head to face Luke again, her expression and her voice were equally earnest. "I didn't come here to argue or to take sides."

"I think you did that when you chose to become a Jedi."

"As you did, when you chose to become a Sith."

"I didn't ch—"

The kid broke off, a brief pause that finally took Han's eyes off the brunette.

She frowned. "Didn't what?"

"Didn't come here to argue, either."

Luke hadn't once mentioned Kenobi after that first testing of the waters, Han noted. No matter what his latest tactic, he wasn't about to just out and out say what he wanted. He'd been better trained than that. Still, he must surely be bursting to ask about the father who'd abandoned him; Han sure as hell was.

Instead, the kid sat back, eyes on the drink he'd claimed to need but hadn't touched. After that first burst of strategies, he'd now fallen to silence, seemingly waiting for Leia to take the lead. She stared, shrewd and unhurried...

Eventually she licked her lips, bending forward just a fraction. "I need to know something."

"Go on?"

"Have you spoken to Vader about me—at all? Even mentioned my name?"

Luke's chin lifted a fraction, unable to fully mask his aversion. "No, why would I?"

She hesitated. "You surely confer?"

"Confer?" That amused Luke so much that he turned to Han. "Do we confer?"

"I wouldn't say confer, exactly," Han said, speaking out for the first time. "But you sure as hell both strive to get your points across."

Leia glanced between them…then shook her head as she blinked quickly, her manner that of someone determined not to be dragged into another dead-end. "Vader and I…have a history."

Han had to smile at that. "Welcome to the club."

When she stared, Han shrugged. "Vader and _everyone_ have a history. The guy goes through life accumulating grudges—from and for people."

"Including you?"

"Oh, I'm so far down the ranks that I don't actually qualify for a full-on grudge. I just come under general disdain."

Leia looked to Luke, who leaned back further into his seat beside Han, almost proud. "I'm full-on antipathy. Mutual."

The Wookiee loosed a series of short, barking hucks in laughter, clearly warming to the kid. Leia on the other hand seemed, if anything, put out by their words. She pulled that little frown that set a wrinkle between her eyebrows. "Why don't you like him?"

Han leaned forward to point at the still clearly visible scar from vader's saber hilt, above Luke's eye. "See that?"

Luke half-turned, but Han had already realized that he'd slipped again beneath that tawny-eyed gaze.

She stared in confusion. "Vader did that?"

She reached out—actually reached out to Luke's face, making Han hold his breath—but the kid jerked quickly back, far enough that his head brushed the wall behind him. Still, he instantly sought to turn it to his advantage.

"Yes…I ask too many of the wrong questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"About Kenobi."

"…What about him?"

Again Luke looked down, playing reticence now, though Han knew damn well that this was where the kid had been going all along. "I need to speak to him—though I know he won't agree."

There you had it—the sting. Kid had taken his time about it. Han held his breath, and Leia looked to him instantly. Luke leaned forward, bringing her attention back to him.

"I'll bet you had to work pretty hard to persuade him to let you come here, didn't you?" He paused divisively. "It felt like he was withholding something from you—some knowledge he wouldn't share…right?"

"He was worried."

"After I'd already saved your life, and let you walk free twice, when I could have handed you in?"

"He was trying to protect me."

"From the man who saved your life."

"But won't tell me why."

"I've just told you why. I want to speak to Kenobi."

She stared, thoughts clearly racing. "Who are you? How did you end up here—do you know?"

Luke paused a fraction, and Han could hear the calculated testing of the waters as he spoke. "What has he told you about me?"

It was excruciating, this need for information on both sides, with neither willing to give anything up. If Leia Skywalker thought she was going to drag even the smallest speck of information from the kid about his past, then good luck to her, Han reflected wryly; she'd be the first. Kid didn't let slip that kind of information at the best of times, let alone when facing a Jedi—even one as eye-catching as this.

She leaned back, eyes narrowing judiciously as those ruby lips pursed. "I don't think you're telling me the whole truth. You're expecting me to trust you, to recommend a huge risk to Master Kenobi which could easily place him in mortal danger, but making no concessions yourself."

"Have you so little faith in your own Master's abilities?" the kid avoided. "How could I be a threat to him?"

"You have a tongue in your head," she said knowingly.

Luke smiled. "I'll meet him anywhere, at any time—name a planet, somewhere neutral, I don't care. You don't need to tell me any more than you want to in advance. Just give me the planet, and you can tell me the details minutes before; I'll come."

"I'm assuming a Sith in the Emperor's service can mobilize quite an impressive force, even at short notice," she observed dryly.

Luke tried a boyish grin. "You overestimate my importance."

If she'd fallen for it before, knowing now that he was Sith, Leia Skywalker wasn't biting. "But not my Master's. Palpatine would give a great deal to have Obi-Wan Kenobi in his possession."

"He'd give a great deal to have you in his possession too, but you still walk free."

Leia nodded in skeptical allowance. "Perhaps you're playing the long game."

"I've no intentions of hauling Kenobi before the Emperor to answer for his crimes, I assure you. If he ever stands before my Master, it won't be my doing."

Han glanced to the side, wondering what the kid meant by that. He wouldn't have lied; he'd told Han often enough that you couldn't tell a direct lie to a Force-sensitive, and certainly Leia's eyes narrowed now as she sought to get the measure of his words…and let them pass, unchallenged.

Instead she leaned forward, voice earnest. "Who are you?"

Luke narrowed his eyes knowingly. "Did he want you to ask that?"

"Give me something—let me trust you."

He sighed, fingers drumming in quick succession on the dirty cantina table, but even Han could see that she wasn't taking any message to anyone without some gesture on Luke's part. He remained silent for long enough that Han figured it was an answer in itself, but the brunette still stared, expectant…

Eventually he made a brief sigh, part frustration, part resignation. His flatly spoken words were quickly delivered: "I came here with Bail and Breha Organa when I was seven—Kenobi knows that—and so do I." Luke moved swiftly from the booth, pausing only a second as he stood, to add, "I know everything…you want something to take to your Master? Tell him that."

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Han moved to follow the kid, and Leia's eyes came to him, uncertain what to do when Luke had finished the conversation so abruptly. Used to this kind of brusqueness from him, Han tipped his head in a half-shrug, knowing there was nothing he could say to explain the acrimony in Luke's final words. She had no idea of the raw nerve she'd touched, simply in asking for the truth.

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Luke walked quickly onto the darkened street, and into the crowded rush of minds searching for fast gratification—laughing and joking, high on alcohol or spice, or both. The youth nearest to him almost walked into him, and without thinking, Luke used the Force to nudge him back a step. He staggered and recovered, not even noticing.

Solo cleared the door behind him and Luke set off immediately into the night, looking to get off the street before the Jedi reached it, aware that she was already rising. Knowing the Shades well, he walked quickly down a side street opposite, taking a staircase set into the side of the building and following it up onto a first floor balcony, where it led to an eatery serving greasy meat, spiced and fried to hide its low grade. He stopped on the overhanging balcony, hidden by the blinking neon sign which hung down from the balcony above.

She emerged to look left and right down the street before murmuring something to the Wookiee, who did the same. Luke remained still, masking his presence as he watched. Just as she was about to walk off, he was gripped by a sudden curiosity as to how good she was—what her capabilities actually were. Among the teeming throng of thoughts and minds, a mass of mental static, he let out the barest flicker: a faint, silent sliver that—

Her head snapped around and up, eyes instantly locking onto his.

He loosed the barest trace of a smile, knowing that though her eyes wouldn't see it, she'd sense it all the same. He'd expected anger from her at the realization that it had been a test, frustration that she'd given so much away unwillingly. Expected her to turn about and stride off, indignant…but she didn't.

Instead she stared, trying to burrow beneath his barriers, even now. He took only his hope to see Kenobi, and let a little of that past, to be sensed—but nothing more. Let her take that back for them to ponder over together, she and the man she so clearly revered. The man who'd treated her like a daughter. Protected her and taught her, when he'd abandoned Luke without a second thought.

She blinked; one last connection of soft, brown eyes imparting without inhibition all of the compassion and fascination that welled within her beneath that veneer of wary caution, then she turned and was gone.

And quite suddenly he felt a pang of…something. Some brief agitation that tugged within, a rush of whispered disquiet. He blinked abruptly in dismissal of the tremor which tightened his chest as it held about his heart.

If she was fool enough to trust him, then the failing was hers. He should feel no guilt over it—and he didn't. He didn't.

His eyes held on the corner past which Leia Skywalker had now disappeared, resentment and longing and involuntary fascination burning within him with equal heat. What must it be like, to grow up basking in the knowledge that you were the one chosen above all others? But then she clearly didn't even know that Kenobi had turned his back on his own son, to train her.

The question burned with the power of years unanswered; what was so wrong with Luke himself, that his own father had discarded him so easily? What was she, that he was not? What had made her worthy, and Luke such an utter disappointment, even then?

He frowned, wrapping his arms about himself, well aware that the habitual animosity with which he'd isolated and protected himself for so long now was flawed. Leia Skywalker's unknowing reminder of Kenobi's rejection had underlined that, showing it for the sham it was, a trained reflex that existed only to buffer a deeper abandonment.

Slowly, he became aware of Han's voice behind him, raised in query.

"Nothing," Luke dismissed quickly.

Han stepped closer to glance down to the street below. "You're not…y'know, thinking of turning her over to Palpatine, are you?"

"Offset the Death Star's loss against the opportunity to flush a new Jedi out of hiding?" Luke was silent for long seconds. "I actually think Palpatine would consider that a fair exchange."

Han straightened, discomfort fairly blazing out of him, and Luke tempered his own resentment at the knowledge of it, forcing his shoulders to drop as he turned away to pass Han and walk back down the narrow plasteel steps. "Relax. I shot Vader off her back because I didn't want her dead. You think I'd hand her over before she gets me to Kenobi?"

"Don't do it like this," Han said quietly, as they reached the street.

"Like what?"

"You can't use her like this."

"Believe me, I could use her a hell of a lot more," Luke said darkly, aware of the burgeoning protection that Solo felt for the woman. "I could simply bring her in, easily."

"A Jedi?"

"Against a Sith? Yes, every time," Luke said. "And I should do it, we both know that. But I can't simply pull Kenobi's location out of her head, if I do. I couldn't even take it out of her head if she was in detention. That means that if I take her in, I hand her over to an interrogator. Is that what you want?" Luke let out a breath, reining his voice in to less confrontational tones as he glanced out into the street. It had fallen to a momentary lull as people thinned, the rabble of noise quieting. "Or maybe, just maybe, I should lie to her to get what I need, and we both walk away from this a little wiser, but for very different reasons."

Solo sighed, his unease palpable, and Luke felt a fresh flare of irritation at it, wondering if he was aware just what Luke was risking in withholding this from his Master. "Do you know how much Palpatine would like to get his hands on a half-trained Jedi?"

"Then why don't you hand her in now and have done with it?" Solo snapped, anger in his eyes.

Emotions flared in quick succession to fire wildly differing loyalties in Luke—to his Master, to his friend… He set off abruptly, leaving Han to stare after him. He wanted to be alone, wanted to be angry, to be callous, to stoke up the shields which shut any compassion out…and he knew he could; he'd done it so many times before, on his Master's command.

He was already into the street before Han shouted after him, "Luke…Luke!"

He paused but didn't turn, speaking quickly, for even this truth burned—intending to be gone before Solo even tried to follow. "Because…..because it's not worth our friendship, okay?"

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Luke sat on the floor pressed against a corner in the dark of the library, an unlit spice stick between his lips, head leaning against the cool, dark wall. An internal room with no windows, it had always contrived to be a close space despite its size, and as such was somehow comforting—perhaps because he'd spent so many years in the windowless expanse of the Throne Room, in his youth, though that had hardly been reassuring. Probably it was simply that he'd spent so very long since then sitting in this room, while Indo paraded a string of ever more tutors and theories to be committed to memory.

Now, with no lights activated, the only illumination came from the long rows of end-lit reference cards which lined complete walls and reflected their soft blue glow over the dark gray scagliola paintwork—not that windows would have made much difference. It was so late that the night was beginning to feel like early morning…but still Luke couldn't sleep, the night's events running through his head.

Plus he wanted the spice stick…a lot. He'd made it up himself, from the batch of spice left in his room tonight, and the familiar process of making it had left him with an unfed craving—a raw need. His ribs ached and his head thudded thickly, and the smell of the spice and the taste of the paper made his heart beat faster in anticipation…but he didn't light it. Instead, Han's words, half lecture, half-challenge, played over and over in Luke's muzzy thoughts.

"_You think you've got your reasons...hell, you might even be right, but trust me when I say that you may believe you've got all the time in the worlds, but I'm here on the outside…and I know what I'm looking at."_

Luke lifted the spice stick free between trembling fingers, automatically holding it as if it were lit, half comforted, half tempted. His mouth was painfully dry. This was syadil—The Siren, they called it on the streets—sharper to the taste and harder on the senses in the amounts he needed, its paper pale blue—there must be no Ruby on the streets right now, he reflected vaguely. It wasn't his preferred choice, but he'd take it, if nothing else was available.

"_That's what addiction is…everyone knows but you, and you still don't want to admit it."_

Luke frowned, reflecting on the night—on Han's words. On how very hard he'd tried to hide the feelings behind them: _"You're not…y'know, thinking of turning her over to Palpatine, are you?"_

At the back of Luke's thoughts an insistent whisper was forming, as he began to wonder at Han's claim, just weeks earlier. _"I'm not going anywhere, I've told you that. You want me to leave, you're gonna have to force me out the door, because that's the only way you'll get rid of me, understand?"_

Big words…and despite himself—despite every possible experience to the contrary—Luke had damn near begun to believe them.

"_Just…go away, huh? I don't want to…I don't want you here right now."_ Han's words, when Luke had dealt with the spy onboard the _Immortal_, as he'd been ordered. A man Han hadn't even known. Leia Skywalker he not only knew but, despite his claims to the contrary, was growing more and more entangled with.

So was it all conditional, this friendship, as every other association that Luke had been offered in his life had turned out to be? With Indo it had been lessons and adherence to the rules—at least on the surface. With Palpatine it had been unswerving obedience and loyalty…

Was Solo like everyone else? And if Luke failed to live up to those demands…would he too just up and leave?

Angry, Luke brought the strike-lighter in his left hand up to light the spice stick…then extinguished it, dropping the strike-lighter in frustration.

Instead, he pulled at the edge of the spice stick's paper, unravelling it and letting its contents spill onto the floor as he flattened out the small piece of paper and reached into his breast pocket to pull out a stylus.

Quickly and from memory, he drew the image of the man he remembered searching out in the old records of the military Intel hub, years ago. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Jedi knight, insurrectionist, radical…would-be assassin. Luke studied the image, lifting one hand to massage his pounding temple.

He hadn't told Indo anything about his meetings with Leia Skywalker, knowing that Indo would expect him to report it to Palpatine immediately—which Luke didn't want to do until he'd gotten, for once, what _he_ wanted out of this mission: to meet Kenobi. To put this—all of it—to rest, once and for all, to his own satisfaction. And if that meant killing the man who'd tried to kill him…well then, he'd never had a father anyway; not really. If anyone, Bail Organa had held that role, but…

Luke stilled, caught off guard by his own errant thoughts, as they conjured memories of the man he'd tried so hard to purge from his past entirely. He heard Bail's shout, half-demand, half-desperation; heard Breha scream...

Straightening, he blinked that moment away, hand closing about the spice paper to crumple and drop it. But the memory had left its imprint, in a pang of near physical pain which still echoed despite…

The doors opened to let in a flood of light from the corridor beyond, making Luke blink rapidly as Ashtor paused to brush the light activation panel and lift the room's levels to something more workable. Still, it took him long moments to locate Luke, in his hidden corner.

When he'd done so he walked briskly to the main table, its wide span scattered with the datapads which Luke used daily in lessons or research.

"Tablets." He placed a glass of water on the table along with three small, blue caplets.

"I've taken them already," Luke lied without thinking. "Ask Solo."

It had become a little ruse between them, the tablets. Han had agreed not to ask Luke to take them when they'd been onboard the _Vendetta_, and as an extension of that, Luke had pretty much quoted him every night since they'd returned to the palace as having been the one who'd given him the sleeping tablets that Indo crammed him full of nightly, in an effort to keep Luke where he was meant to be. He had no idea if anyone ever checked with Han, but if they did, then he assumed that Han was backing him up, because no one had yet come back to Luke, tablets in hand.

What would he do, when Solo walked out because of Leia Skywalker? How much had he come to rely on him, already, Luke reflected uneasily.

Ashtor straightened, disbelief fairly rolling out of him. "Solo, huh?"

"Yeah, you remember him." Luke rose, feeling foolish now beneath Ashtor's cool scrutiny, for being sat on the floor in a corner. "Tall Corellian—always talking…oh, but then you talk quite a lot too, from what I hear." He didn't meet Ashtor's eyes as he walked past him and out into the corridor beyond, waiting until he was far enough away that the man may or may not have heard him; he didn't care which. "Just not around here."

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Ashtor watched Antilles walk from the room. Listened to the soft tap of his boots as he receded down the main concourse… Smartass. He wondered briefly if the kid had picked the thought up; probably not, or he'd be back here by now. He lowered the lights, about to leave…when a flash of reflected light from Antilles' abandoned strike-lighter caught his eye and made him glance again to the corner. Frowning, he raised the lights and walked forward. On the floor about it was a milled, pale grey residue…spice probably, knowing how much Antilles smoked—though this didn't look burned or… Ashtor crouched down; to the edge of the high skirtings was a small piece of pale blue paper, crumpled into a tiny ball and discarded. Reaching out, he lifted it and carefully straightened it. It was a pale blue-grey spice paper, ripped to one edge. On it was a small sketch of an unknown man, his hair cropped short enough to stand upright at his temple. Ashtor frowned, not recognizing the man as anyone from the palace…then quickly pushed the spice paper into his pocket, glancing behind him.

Having done so, he knew he'd need to avoid Antilles for the rest of the night. But then that was their usual routine anyway; that would suit them both just fine…

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The holo onboard the Wookiee scoutship was small, but even at this size, Leia could see the quiet relief in Obi-Wan's face that all had gone well. She'd contacted the Rebel homeship _Independence_ as soon as she and Chewie had blasted off from Coruscant, and left a brief message of reassurance, before Chewie had taken the craft to lightspeed. Now, safe a full day's travel from the capital planet, they had paused again to make contact with the _Independence _for a more in-depth appraisal of her contact with Luke Antilles.

"It went well?" Mon Mothma was in attendance too, and leaned in beside Obi-Wan, her voice hopeful.

"I'm still here," Leia said by way of reply. Above that…she wasn't entirely sure. Though on reflection, she had realized one thing; she'd left Luke Antilles just as curious of her as she now felt about him.

"You spoke to him?" Obi-Wan asked. He was, Leia noted, far less sanguine than Mon.

"Eventually," she replied. "Though he wasn't giving anything away. Solo—Han Solo, the pilot on the image we were sent after the Death Star's destruction—came to the first meeting alone. Luke didn't come at all, I don't know why."

"So there were two meetings?"

"Two, yes. And again, Luke Antilles chose the location of the second one, so he had prior knowledge, should he have wished to set a trap."

Obi-Wan straightened slightly, and Leia knew him well enough to know that it was because he'd warned her not to take unnecessary chances. "Luke came alone, save for Solo," she added quickly, in reassurance.

"Did you…get a sense of Antilles?" Obi-Wan asked.

Leia frowned. She'd known that he would ask this—it had, after all, supposedly been her remit for speaking with him again—so she'd spent the day and night since the meeting thinking on it…but she still wasn't sure she had an answer.

"He's very…very conflicted, I think. He puts forward a confident, self-possessed façade, but…I don't know, I get the sense that there's a lot going on underneath—a lot of uncertainty."

Mon Mothma leaned forward. "In his actions?"

"…No." Much as she wanted to say otherwise, Leia knew she had to tell the truth. "No, I think his loyalties are clear-cut. Perhaps…perhaps he's curious...about me—and you, Master Kenobi. He wants to meet you."

"Meet me?"

Leia nodded. "That's the reason he gave for…everything. He wants to meet you—to speak with you."

Obi-Wan straightened and glanced to Mon Mothma, who seemed equally worried. Leia frowned. "Surely that's a good thing?"

"Do you believe you can read the motives of a Sith, Padawan?"

"No, Master, but…" The wary doubt written all over Obi-Wan's face held her to silence, as Chewie keened quietly beside her.

She'd always had the impression that Luke's appearance on Coruscant had surprised everyone, even Obi-Wan. Certainly she remembered a great sense of urgency in her leaving Tatooine, and it had clearly been Luke's appearance on Coruscant which had prompted that.

Her mind went briefly back to that image—of the boy, pale and thin and dressed in dark clothes, who had been forced with some reluctance out onto the balcony of the Imperial Palace by Palpatine. He'd leaned back, trying in those first few moments to pull away from the open balcony, but strong hands had gripped onto his shoulders, and so he'd let himself be walked out and stood, tense and silent, eyes on the massed crowds below, until the Emperor had turned him about to return to the darkness of the room.

She knew it so well, that image; had seen it so many times. Had been fascinated by the boy's stillness, his mute acceptance of something that he so clearly didn't want.

Obi-Wan had told her about Luke Antilles' past, of course—that he was a Force-sensitive of unknown origins and rare power, who came briefly into Obi-Wan and Master Yoda's hands during the Jedi Purge. Knowing that they themselves were being hunted, and knowing to keep the child then would have only made his chances of being discovered greater, they had passed him into the care of a staunch, if secret, supporter: Bail Organa, Viceroy of Alderaan. There he'd stayed, anonymously hidden…until the age of seven, at which point Palpatine had found him and taken control of him, killing his benefactors for no other reason than to hide his seizure of the child.

Nine years ago; over half his life lived in the dragon's lair…probably it was all that he remembered, now. Leia frowned briefly, wondering for the first time how much of the man she'd seen, had been forced upon him.

Wondering again what lay beneath those perfect Sith shields.

"He's invisible in the Force, Master. When we met…I sensed his presence as he neared—he allowed that much—but the moment that he saw me…" Leia paused, shaking her head. "He was ten steps away and I was looking right at him, and his presence in the Force shrank to nothing—nothing at all. I stood right before him and sensed nothing."

It was something a Jedi couldn't do—not like that. They could hide their physical presence, hide their specific signature within the Force, but not their effect upon it. Perhaps by the nature of their attempts to live in concert with it, the actions of any Jedi impacted upon the Force more than most, and the ramifications of those actions from moment to moment left a subtle ripple visible to those skilled enough to sense it. It could be minimized by distance and by conscious dampening, but unlike a Sith, who made no such efforts at unity with the Force, it couldn't be removed entirely.

Obi-Wan sighed. "If he can hide himself completely, then his identity as a Sith is unarguable."

Mon's head tilted down, elbows resting on her desk and chin in her hands, her manner that of someone in grave thought. "But does that mean that he's irredeemable?"

Obi-Wan turned just slightly. "Once you make that choice to walk a darker path, you cannot pull back."

"Surely one can feel regret; compunction. They're basic sentient traits."

"I sensed…" Leia hesitated, trying to categorize her memory of the meeting. "So much was reflex—antagonism to mask a deeper pain. He seemed…agitated. He said to tell you…to tell you that he knew everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes. When I asked him something of his past, as you'd suggested…he asked immediately if you'd told me to say that. Then he said…" Again she paused, taking care to recall the words exactly. "He said that he came to Coruscant with Bail and Breha Organa when he was seven, and that you'd know this. And he said…he said that he knew everything—that if I wanted something to tell you, I should tell you that."

Obi-Wan glanced briefly to Mon, and it was Mon's more expressive face that Leia watched closely.

"That was all?" Obi-Wan asked.

"That was everything," Leia admitted. "Like I said, he wasn't giving anything away. He only admitted that because he wanted to meet you."

Obi-Wan leaned back, scratching at his graying beard, and Leia searched her mind for anything more that could be of value. "He's…he swings between unrepentant deceit and deeper reluctance. He can be very…disarming. As can Solo. I asked Luke if he'd told Vader about me—if he'd mentioned my name, even once—and he…I got the feeling that there was no amity lost between them. In fact, I think the words he used were mutual antipathy."

At this Obi-Wan sat forward slightly. "There was no…connection?"

"He said…he had a scar above his eye, a recent one—a deep one—and Solo let slip that it was from Vader. I don't think Luke had intended for him to…but he tried to use it, once Solo had."

"To use it?"

"He said that Vader believed he asked too many questions—about you. He'd already said that he had questions he thought you could answer...but then he backpedalled completely."

"Questions about himself?"

"I don't know. More…about his life, perhaps, or what he'd been taught. Would…" Leia hesitated, then asked anyway, uncertain why exactly she did so. "Would you have trained him—had things been different, had Palpatine not found him…would you have trained him, Master?"

Obi-Wan looked down, frowning. "Master Yoda advised caution. He had his reasons, and they were sound." Leia remained silent, drawn in further by the hesitancy in Obi-Wan's voice, remembering Luke Antilles' words: _"It felt like he was withholding something from you—some knowledge he wouldn't share…"_

Obi-Wan sighed into her silence. "We knew even then that Luke had great potential—sufficient to destroy Palpatine—and far more than with you, we feared that the moment we brought him out of hiding to teach him, we risked bringing him to the attention of Vader and Palpatine."

Leia frowned, aware that her own training had begun late, when she was twelve. Still… "I've remained hidden despite that…"

"Yes, but you are not him, Leia. Your signature in the Force is naturally more difficult to detect. The moment Palpatine realized the boy's existence, we knew that he would commit all possible resources to finding him."

"But surely that's a greater reason to have trained him?"

Obi-Wan paused… "Is there something wrong?"

Leia glanced quickly down. "No, Master, I just…I feel there's something missing from this picture. Why would Palpatine hunt down Luke with such zeal, and not yourself or Master Yoda?"

"Because Luke had such potential. Master Yoda and myself were a threat because we were Jedi…Luke too was a danger because of his abilities, but he was untrained; unformed. He would have been a greater draw because that potential power was open to corruption."

"Surely we all have those same temptations? How am I any different?"

"You have not lived in the company of Sith," Obi-Wan said gravely.

Leia frowned, taking that to its logical conclusion. "Then if you'd retrieved him from the palace, even as a boy…you still wouldn't have trained him?"

"Once he had been with Palpatine or Vader, even for a short time…I very much doubt it. He would have been tainted. The risk would be too great, especially with him."

"So then, if he chose to reject his Sith teachings now…?"

Obi-Wan's regard sharpened. "Has he given you any indication—any at all—that this is the case?"

Leia hesitated…then lowered her head. "No, Master. He made…made a brief reference to such—twice in fact—but the first time, as soon as he'd said it he made light of it, and the second…he has incredible shields. A Sith's ability to block you out. His control is amazing."

"Remember that," Obi-Wan cautioned. "Remember that he led you to wonder at his beliefs, without once giving you true reason to. His kind…they are often charismatic, because to us they are unfathomable. We search to understand—to help—and in trying we're pulled ever deeper, until we lose all objectivity." Again Obi-Wan glanced down, voice self-censuring. "I ignored the advice of the Jedi Council to Master Qui-Gon, and continued to train Anakin after Master Qui-Gon's death. My mistakes gave Anakin access to the power that Darth Vader now holds, and it led to the downfall of the Jedi and the Republic. I won't make that mistake again, I won't bring another Anakin into the fold, nor give him that hold over me—or anyone else."

"But he's not…"

"Leia, I would not have you hold the weight of culpability and regret that I do—ever."

Leia stared…it was so rare that her Master faltered, but there was true pain in his eyes—and urgency. "You _cannot_ trust him, you know that?"

"I know that, Master."

"Be sure," Obi-Wan urged. "This man is a Sith, and eventually he will face you with a lightsaber in his hand, and no Sith is to be underestimated in this. Their training is based around a martial stance, and make no mistake, they do not hesitate. Remember that. No matter what you learn of him, you cannot trust him—ever."

Leia glanced down, but Obi-Wan wouldn't let her avoid this. "He's been under the control of two Sith for most of his life—he _cannot_ be anything else. I fear…too much burns within him, too much pressure, with one so young. I see a being that burns brightly…but briefly. His kind, they are driven, and those nearby are often consumed. Take care you don't stand too close to the flames."

Leia nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment—and yet she still couldn't step back, even knowing the risks. What was it about Luke Antilles, she wondered, that compelled her to act so out of character, to allow emotion to overcome logic? Because it drew her in, his presence in the Force, this dark and twisted thing. And with not a single fragment of fact to fire it, she knew the heat she felt was a flare of hope that the struggle she'd sensed at the very core of Luke's being, was that of one who railed against the path he had been locked into by another.

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With the comm over, Obi-Wan took the time to think on all the facts—or rather, the few new ones, about the boy who had grown to a man in the shadow of a Sith Emperor.

About what, if anything, was salvageable.

The official NewsNet image of Emperor Palpatine and his retinue standing on the balcony before the crowds on the event of the eleventh annual State Celebration to honor the formation of the Empire, was when Obi-Wan had realized just how completely his and Master Yoda's hopes for reinstating the Republic had gone awry. It wasn't an instant realization, since even then these events had become an annual occurrence—the only time when the Emperor appeared, even at a distance, before his subjects. So aside from the much-harassed Alliance Intel's usual study of just who exactly had gained the status to make it onto the wide sweep of the balcony this year—and so who was in the Emperor's favor—they had no reason to look more closely.

So it had been almost a week before Intel had sent the encrypted package containing the short, digitized and cleaned up version of images with their standard annual 'who's who on the balcony' report to Obi-Wan, still stationed on the Rim world of Tatooine in his hidden vigil. A full week before that tingle of portent at the back of his thoughts resolve into something dark and solid, making him stand slowly as he stared at the enhanced image, all other perceptions of his isolated, sand-dusted abode falling to a distant blur. Because there, practically dragged out of the darkened interior to be paraded on the wide Pageant Balcony, was a fair-haired child…

Dressed all in black, he was gaunt and pallid, squinting in the light, and by all rights Obi-Wan oughtn't to have even recognized him, so much had he changed…yet he had known with a terrible, all-consuming certainty who he was looking at. The Force practically resonated in its eagerness to share the terrible truth.

It had taken him an hour to reassemble, with trembling hands, the long-distance comm system that he'd dismantled and hidden in the cave close by. Three more to establish a link and bounce the message between endless commsats until it reached its destination: Mon Mothma, who had already risen to become the de-facto leader of the Alliance.

Then came the rumors, from Coruscant itself—that Palpatine had found a savant, a child whom he had begun training as a Sith. A boy who could and would kill on command.

It had been decided almost immediately to bring Leia to greater safety, and Obi-Wan had set out that day to ensure it. When he'd settled Leia with Mon under the safety of the Alliance, he had travelled to Dagobah with the news, though like himself, Master Yoda had already sensed that tremble of premonition…so a plan was formed—one which had ultimately been disastrous.

They would take the boy back. Master Yoda had put forward a more…final solution, should it be necessary. But Vader's son was still a child, and having woken from vivid nightmares and cursed Anakin many times for turning on the children in the Jedi Temple massacre, Obi-Wan could never himself agree to the same, even if he had been capable.

It was only on the night that Obi-Wan, Master Yoda and a group of Alliance commandoes had put the plan to snatch the eleven-year-old boy from the Palace on Coruscant into operation, that they realized they'd been lured into a trap. The image had been purposely released by Palpatine to draw the last of the Jedi out of hiding.

Master Yoda, travelling from Dagobah to aid in the rescue of what would in all likelihood be a hostile and powerful child, had lost his life in the raid. Backed into a duel with Vader, Obi-Wan himself had barely escaped, and only then because of Master Yoda's sacrifice in confronting and detaining Palpatine. They'd never even reached the boy.

So now, only he and his padawan Leia remained of the Jedi Order…facing off against three of the most powerful Force-users ever to have lived. It had become a game of hide and seek on a galactic scale, as Obi-Wan had wrung his mind for any way in which he could turn the balance back in the Jedi's favor against the Sith. Any thought of returning to try again to retrieve the boy was gone; Obi-Wan was now the last of the Jedi, and his responsibility had to be to Leia and to the Jedi Order, because if he were not here to train her—not here to pass on the ways of the Jedi—then who would? Fear of leaving her alone and only partially trained had held Obi-Wan back from action for so many years.

His hope had been that, until now, there seemed to have been very little movement from Vader's son, whom Obi-Wan had seen several times when Luke was a child on Alderaan—enough to know that he had inherited his father's power and connection to the Force. He hadn't for one moment suspected that Palpatine, in his eagerness to control both Vader and the boy, would lead Anakin to believe that his son was dead—hadn't thought that even the Sith Master would be so callous.

And now the boy was grown, wanting to speak to Obi-Wan. And knowing Luke's abilities, if he agreed, would Obi-Wan be facing his killer? Could he afford to leave Leia alone in the galaxy, on the offhand chance that Luke simply wished to talk, as he had claimed to Leia?

Her knowledge that Vader was her father—argued long and hard for by Mon Mothma—had been hard enough, but at least she had some context to place the facts within. Vader had long since made his decisions, and Obi-Wan and Mon had taken great care to teach Leia that the creature who inhabited that black suit for years before Leia knew the truth, had little in common with the man who had fathered her.

With her typical stubborn strength, she had held tenaciously to her own surname, despite Obi-Wan's attempts at dissuasion. Vader had moved on, she'd said with dogged resolve; Skywalker was her name, now. She'd already grown to the age of twelve with it, and it was part of her; it always had been. She wouldn't be cowed out of that by a man who had long-since given it up. Again, it was Mon who had championed Leia's cause, claiming that when the time came, her knowledge would be a strength, not a weakness. To dissuade her from any empathy or compassion was to give Vader ammunition to turn on her. Instead, Obi-Wan and Mon Mothma had dedicated a great deal of effort into keeping her very existence hidden from the Empire for as long as possible, sure that Vader would not hesitate, even when he discovered the truth.

Leia was her father's daughter in at least one respect, because Obi-Wan had found, over the years, that if she chose to do something, no matter how foolhardy or how dangerous, then she would do it. Her insistence on making the stop at Coruscant to try to re-establish contact with their Sinto base informer had been a prime example. Obi-Wan, always looking for the clean solution, had not intended to even tell Leia, but had been stymied by Mon Mothma's mention of Derrig's failure to contact them—and off she had gone. It was, to Leia, as simple as that; a job needed doing, and on her present course returning to the Alliance, she was travelling near to the right system…of course it should be her who went! The fact that it had put her in the middle of a nest of Sith had never entered into the equation for her, nor had the fact that she was one of the last remaining Jedi. She wouldn't be cowed in anything. Ever.

The confidence of youth. He very much hoped that she still held it if she had to duel her brother one day. What he hadn't said to her in their discussion today—what he would never shake her confidence by speaking aloud—was the truth that both he and Master Yoda had known as those swaddled babies had grown. Had stood and walked and exhibited their first inklings of individuality within the Force.

Because her brother was also his father's son—in more ways than Leia, in truth. It had been so clear even in childhood that his mind and his spirit would be more attuned to combat than Leia. She was the conscience, the philosopher, the thinker. Diligent and determined, she had grown up needing an answer to everything, and if the answer was deficient, she needed to know not just why, but how it could be changed—how she herself could change it. Never afraid to fight to have her voice heard, at sixteen it was already clear that she was a natural and intuitive leader, willing to stand up and speak out on all she held dear. Her strengths would have brought her to a chair in the Jedi Council early, had the situation been different.

Luke…Luke, as a child when Obi-Wan had visited him, had also been a whirlwind of questions, always excitable and eager, always pushing, always seeking out the next challenge. Nothing was wrong with any of this, to be sure. Tempered with the deeply instilled sense of right and wrong which his guardians would have instilled in him as he grew, it could have been so easily channelled into the teachings of the Jedi and would have combined to make Luke a pre-eminent Knight, Obi-Wan knew that—and so did Palpatine. But discovering the boy, he would have seen a very different potential. Seen a still-impressionable child with a fierce will and a wayward impetuousness, traits which could so easily be misdirected, given the opportunity…and there—there was the reason that he would have sought control of the boy—and the reason for Obi-Wan's fear, when he had gained it.

Mon had maintained always that due to his formative years with Bail and Breha, Luke was an unknown element in all this, but stung by his past failures with Luke's father, Obi-Wan knew that he could no longer afford such ideals. And now there was another unanticipated complication, it seemed.

Because it was clear that Luke had some kind of influence on Leia, even if only at a subliminal level; Obi-Wan hadn't missed the fact that after just a few meetings, Leia now referred to him by his first name. Clear that she harboured some unspoken fascination. Was it the Force which had brought them together? Did her unknowing brother feel that same pull? With so much at risk, once again Obi-Wan felt that he simply couldn't afford to take that chance.

Should he refuse to see the boy at all? Ask of Leia that she do the same—cut all contact? Headstrong as ever, she would want a valid reason. Having seen the boy taken by Palpatine, Master Yoda had believed that if she one day had to face her brother in a duel between Sith and Jedi, knowledge of their long-broken bond would only hinder her in the one situation in which even the slightest vulnerability or hesitation would mean certain death. How much easier to ask of her that she face down an enigmatic unknown, rather than her own flesh and blood. Still smarting from his catastrophic failure with Anakin—from the terrible results of his inability to finish their duel on Mustafar—Obi-Wan had agreed.

He had always known on some level that the battle he'd begun with Anakin would one day be brought to conclusion, and as an extension of that, had always believed that Leia's battle was elsewhere. That her destiny and her brother's were inextricably linked.

Though years had passed since Mustafar, the results of Obi-Wan's failure had only compounded, as the Empire grew in power. He would not—could not—allow either himself or Leia to make the same mistakes with Anakin's son.

Yet…after all that he had judged Palpatine for withholding the facts from father and son for his own advantage, how could Obi-Wan claim that same right with Leia?

Perhaps he should have tried to retrieve her brother at least once more, in the interim years, regardless of the risks. If Palpatine had let the boy out of his sight just occasionally, it might have been possible but in truth… No, in truth, the boy was already eleven by the time that Obi-Wan and Master Yoda had known he still lived. He'd already been four years under the control of a Sith Master. Luke would have been a liability, even had they recovered him.

Should he have changed his decision to let either child go with Bail Organa in the first place…or was he yet again blaming himself for that which had been beyond his control, as Master Yoda always claimed he had done with Anakin? Was he too ready to take on the burden for events which were not of his making?

Leia's Force signature was so very different from her brother's, muted in childhood, as all children's were. Untrained, she could have probably withstood even close proximity to a Sith in relative safety. How, then, had her brother given himself away, so young? What had led Palpatine to even suspect? For Bail and Breha to have taken Luke to Coruscant had been foolhardy but still, he was untrained; it should have been survivable.

Questions, Obi-Wan reflected. So many questions that he hadn't the knowledge to answer—and not knowing, how could he best decide what to tell Leia? His mind went back to Mon Mothma's words just a few weeks earlier, on the subject; that whatever the decision, it must be an informed choice—only then could it be reached with a clear conscience.

And there was, he supposed, just one way to get the answers he needed: go to the source.

Speak to the boy.

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To be continued…..

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	21. Chapter 21

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**CHAPTER 21**

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It was a slow change, a gradual awareness, like a storm front closing in, so that Luke became conscious of it only in retrospect, as the pressure built and hovered like a heat-haze in the distance, a mirage at the very edge of his perceptions, a whisper on the wind. It wasn't a threat, this tremor; wasn't the rolling rumble of distant thunder. Yet he was conscious of it in his own restlessness, in the heightened state of his own awareness which made him stare at the familiar, searching for the change that had taken place.

By dusk the following day, the whisper was a word that he couldn't quite speak, hovering on the very tip of his tongue. He'd mentioned it to no one and done nothing about it, save to mark his own restlessness, but alone now as Han, Gorn and Indo had left for the night, he found himself standing before the windows of the Red Room, the lights not yet activated, staring out over the city and listening to the stillness as he looked again for that disparity; for that variation in the familiar.

He watched for almost an hour, arms wrapped about himself, unease bringing his perceptions ever more tightly to bear… It was there, somewhere, in the mass of life that ebbed and flowed. Scattered in the static, furled within itself with delicate, precise sensitivity, it was there…waiting.

He turned abruptly and walked from the room and the apartment. Ashtor stood as Luke passed and voiced a question as to where he was going, but Luke didn't answer. It was only when he was two levels down that he realized himself; he was heading for Han's quarters. He needed to speak to Han.

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He took little-used corridors, knowing every one here; every turn and shortcut and dead end. These unused hallways were barely lit, their dark walls encroaching despite their scale, cold surfaces echoing that same subtle disturbance that grated so very slightly. Barely there but all-encompassing, it somehow contrived to hide in the shadows, though it shone like the light of day.

Lost in his thoughts, Luke didn't noticed the dark figure that stalked towards him from the opposite direction, looking up only when he was almost upon it. His step broke stride and he instantly chided himself as Darth Vader neared, mental barriers rising as he cursed his own inattentiveness. Cursed again at Vader's ability to hide his presense so completely from Luke when he so wished, aware that there was no way to avoid him now without it being an obvious capitulation, and he wasn't about to concede defeat so readily, even in this.

Each slowed as they reached the other, and Luke braced for the first volley that would inevitably come.

"What are you doing here?" Vader didn't even attempt to cloak his belligerence, though Luke was hardly threatened.

"I wasn't aware that I was required to hand over an itinerary of my every waking hour to you."

"Run back and hide behind the Emperor's throne," Vader ground out. "And whisper all that you see to him."

Luke raised his chin, smiling a dare. "Guilty conscience, Lord Vader?"

That stark, faceted helmet twitched as Vader lifted his chin. "If you have an accusation, make it to my face."

Luke smiled broadly, and started walking. He was level with him before Vader turned his huge bulk just slightly, bass voice murmuring, "You are withholding something."

Not wanting to be made to lift his head to look his antagonist in the eye, Luke took a casually measured step back. "From you? Yes. Why would I tell you anything?"

"From the Emperor."

Luke froze for fraught seconds beneath Vader's stare before he managed to drag a brittle poise about his unease, sufficient that he held that obsidian gaze without blinking, though he knew that Vader had a greater ability to read him than his Master. Despite the antipathy each of them held, for some reason, they had always been able to read each other well.

"I am watching you," Vader growled ominously. "I am not as trusting of the Emperor's toy Sith as he is. And when I catch you, it will be red-handed, and the transgression will be such that Palpatine's protection will cease on the spot."

Luke drew deep for sufficient nerve to call Vader's bluff. "You're welcome to take any facts that you have to the Emperor."

"You have secrets." Vader's gloved hand rose to point as he aimed a knowing threat. "Yourself and the Corellian pilot."

"You're making accusations against the pilot who saved your life above the Death Star, now? Or have you already conveniently forgotten that?"

"Perhaps if he had turned more of his supposed skill to the defense of the Death Star…"

"Perhaps if you'd done the same," Luke parried. "You were flying lead; the X-wing was under your sights. And don't claim empty regrets to me—you and I both know you didn't give a damn about the Death Star."

"No," Vader acknowledged without compunction. "But it could still have been made to serve the Empire's cause."

"The Emperor's," Luke corrected sharply.

"As you say so very often," Vader rumbled. "Perhaps a little too often."

Luke squared his chin. "I've no doubts about where my loyalties lie—none."

"And the Corellian?"

"Solo's past is in his personnel file. I'm sure the Emperor has read it." It was a vaguery; an irrelevant truth to dodge greater scrutiny, though even this was a gamble, with Vader.

"And so you think he simply _allows_ Solo's presence here? He tolerates nothing less than total obedience."

"Yet you're still here."

Vader tilted his head, and Luke sensed the sneer he couldn't see as Vader threw his earlier words back at him. "You are welcome to take any facts that you have to the Emperor."

"Don't I always?" Luke started walking, wanting to end this verbal battle before it came to blows, which would see them both knelt before the Emperor, forced to validate their actions. He was three paces away before Vader's words stopped him.

"Perhaps you will do so when you speak to Palpatine about the Force disturbance tonight…or were you walking these back halls because you were on your way to speak to another first? Hardly the actions of a loyal Hand who claims he has nothing to hide."

Luke paused—and Vader's self-satisfied voice was absolutely sure. "This disturbance is connected to you."

He should laugh and walk on, Luke knew…yet he couldn't help but turn, though he gave nothing away in the tone of his voice. "Why?"

"You tell me."

"There's no reason."

Vader straightened to his full, imposing height as his satisfaction rippled outwards. "Then why did you turn?"

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Distracted and unsettled, Luke reached Han's apartment and keyed the code into the door lock, sure now that the gradually building tremor in the Force had something to do with him, though he couldn't figure out how—or why he needed to tell Han that. The door clicked free and he entered quickly, his desire to speak with Han mounting—

The apartment was silent and dark, Solo not inside.

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It had been early evening when the message had reached Han's comlink. The sky was just beginning to fade from overcast blues to true black, so that the massive slabs of dark stone which dressed the tall corridors absorbed what little light was left to render the silent hallways deeply shadowed as Han made the long, familiar walk from the kid's apartment to his own more modest quarters, his shift over. The gentle buzz of his comlink made Han frown; what the hell had the kid done this time—Han was barely three levels down, and Ashtor was already comming him. He pulled his comlink, reflecting sourly that this was a new record, even for…

It was a written message, brief, and with no return comm code: _'Meet me in two hours. Same place, alone. Try not to elevate that general disdain into a full-on grudge in the meantime.'_

Han stared, wondering what the hell it meant. General distain to a full-on grudge? The next words instantly clarified the message's source:_ 'Chewie says hello.'_

He came to a stop in the hallway, staring at the message. How the hell had she gotten his comm code? '_Same place, alone.' _Why did she want to speak to him, and not Luke? What the hell was he supposed to do now? He glanced up as an unknown aide walked past him, staring. Scowling, suddenly wondering whether he'd been muttering aloud, Han picked up his walk again, eyes dead ahead.

'_Same place, alone.' _

Should he go? He slowed to glance behind him, wondering whether to head back to the apartment and tell Luke…then resumed the walk to his own quarters. Maybe he should just blank it and pretend he'd never received it. Yeah, a little selective technical failure seemed by far the smartest course. He lifted his comlink…and saw again, '_Try not to elevate that general disdain into a full-on grudge in the meantime.' _

And it came back to him; he'd said it to Leia, of himself and Vader—that he didn't rank high enough to be worth a full-on grudge from the man, he only warranted general disdain. Han rolled his head, a smile coming to his lips in spite of himself…and slowed again, staring at his comlink.

What the hell, he could find out what she wanted. That wouldn't do any harm, right?

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The Bad Break Cantina hadn't gone up any in the world since his last visit. Every other lamp was still on the fritz, every other chair still had its fake hide ripped or written on, and the floor was still mildly tacky beneath his boots, probably from the same spillages as last time —always the sign of a classy joint.

Leia Skywalker was sitting in a booth to the rear of the big room, already watching him as he made his way through the uncaring crowds on the main floor. When he got to the table, there was a glass waiting before an empty seat. He sat and took a wary sip.

"Corellian brandy," she said. "Chewie said you'd drink it."

"Not on my pay," Han groused automatically, glancing to the Wookiee, who leaned back to fold hirsute arms across his wide chest, chuntering that maybe Solo should make the most of it then, because at that price he wasn't going to get another. Han grinned, amused at the Wookiee's offhand camaraderie.

Leia glanced down, then back to Han. She still had the damndest big brown eyes. "Thanks for coming," she said at last.

"I nearly didn't."

"I nearly didn't ask you," she admitted. "Chewie persuaded me. He thinks you're reliable, and a Wookiee is generally a good judge of character."

"Yeah?" Han lifted his eyebrows, taking her in. She didn't exactly dress to kill, wearing rough-spun layers in sandy tones, but those big tawny eyes were at once sharp and soft, and her shoulder-length chestnut hair had the kind of sheen that you could… He straightened, dragging himself back to the moment. "Actually that's true, about Wookiees. Maybe I should trust you for the same reason, since you're with one." He glanced to Chewie, tipping his head. "I'm assuming you're here by choice, and she doesn't have your mother tied up in a tree somewhere?"

Chewie hucked out a laugh as Leia tilted her head. "Well, now we've got that cleared up." She flashed a dry smile, which suited her, then glanced down. "But seriously, I'd like to think I can trust you."

"I have my moments," Han claimed. She took a breath to speak, and Han pushed quickly on before she had a field-day with that one. "You haven't seen any of them yet. How'd you get my comm code?"

"We uncovered and stole the plans of the Empire's new superweapon—you think we'd have that much trouble with a comm code?"

He took another sip and let the brandy burn enjoyably. "So what else do you know?"

"About you?" She looked him up and down appraisingly. "I know you spend way, _way_ too many credits on uniforms, Lieutenant Solo."

"Hey, they made me spend that! And since you know me well enough to comment on my dress sense now, you should maybe call me Han."

"Han." She nodded, her brow wrinkling as her voice took on a serious tone. "What I don't understand is why you keep putting that uniform on."

He looked away, uncomfortable. "I know—at the very least, they could pay for the damn thing."

"I'm serious. How can you give those people your allegiance?"

Han glanced down, and Leia frowned, leaning in. "Or are you beginning to wonder that yourself?"

He sighed. "Maybe you're right, and I'm that simple guy in a complicated situation."

"Actually, I take it back. I think you might be that complicated man in a very simple situation."

Han toyed with his glass. "Trust me, it's the situation."

"Really? Because I'm starting to think that deep down, it's pretty clear-cut for you. What's complicated about—oh, Luke Antilles."

Han pursed his lips. "He's a good kid—despite all evidence to the contrary."

She watched him closely, dark eyes narrowing. "You really believe that, don't you?"

Han nodded just slightly. "I really do."

"So…" Those big hazel eyes held his, solemn and serious. "If I bring Master Kenobi here….will he be safe?"

Han glanced down, trying to make light of it. "On Coruscant? I'm gonna say no, actually."

Leia leaned forward and rested one delicate hand on his arm. "Han, this is…this is so important to me. Obi-Wan brought me up, he kept me safe, taught me everything. He gave so much to do that, and I don't want to let him down now."

Han sighed deeply as he looked from Leia to Chewie...even the damn Wookiee was staring at him, expectant. This was what she'd asked him here for, he realized. "Look, you gotta ask Luke that."

"I have a feeling I wouldn't get a straight answer."

"What makes you think I ever do?"

"But you know him."

"I'm not in his head! I know…" He quietened, glancing down. "I know the kid's got questions…important stuff. You're asking me to—"

"I'm asking you to help me keep a good man alive…please."

Han sighed, dragging his hands through his hair before he looked back at her. "I told you before, Luke can throw a few curve-balls, but he's basically okay."

"Basically or reliably?"

"He's…you just said that you grew up with Kenobi, right? That he's always been there for you, taught you all you know. Now imagine that had been Palpatine."

"When I look at Luke Antilles , I don't have to—and that's what scares me."

Han made a brief gesture with one hand. "I dunno. I just don't know. I can tell you that he tells the Old Man absolutely everything…but he hasn't told him this. Not any part of it. I think he's got some big stuff he needs to sort out—and I think your Obi-Wan Kenobi does, too."

"He does." She watched Han closely, sharp eyes penetrating. "But he won't tell me what."

"Well then you're just gonna have to trust 'em both, aren't you? Give 'em their space; truth's got a habit of outing."

Leia's gaze turned down to the untouched drink on the table before her, thoughtful. After long moments, she looked up at Han, an impish smile brightening her features once more. "The Old Man?"

Han shrugged, grinning. "Ol' Yellow Eyes—don't tell him I said that."

Chewie hucked a low laugh as Leia leaned back. "How in the galaxy did you end up at the Imperial palace, Han Solo?"

"Honestly?" Han grinned. "I got in a bar fight—actually, scratch that, it was Luke who got in a bar fight, I just pulled the Weequay with the vibroblade off his back."

"And that got you personal access to the most elite institution in the galaxy?"

Han glanced down, suddenly somber. "He doesn't have a whole lot of people he can trust, back there. He's pretty much brought himself up…with Old Yellow Eyes haranguing him every step of the way."

"So Palpatine raised him?"

Han felt his jaw tighten. "No, Palpatine dragged him up by alternately ignoring him and putting the fear of all hells into him. Still does, every damn chance he gets."

"But Palpatine trained him as a Sith."

Han glanced away. "He didn't want it."

She leaned forward, suddenly intensely interested. "Why do you say that?"

"I just know. Know how much it's messed him up. Palpatine's got him screwed up so tight that he can't see anything else. Can't imagine anything else."

She hesitated, thoughtful. "Do you think he'd turn his back on it, given the chance?"

Han sighed. "I don't know, Palpatine's got his claws in deep. I know he can't be what the old man wants him to be, though, even when he's ripping himself apart trying." Han let out a short, mirthless laugh, realizing it afresh as he tried to explain it to someone else. "Every single day's centered around dealing with that—how to give Palpatine what he flat-out demands without…without losing himself, I guess. But he can't see that—not yet. Sometimes you're just too close, you know?"

She stared at Han for a long time… "Do you think I could help him?"

It was the earnestness in her voice that stopped Han from dismissing her words with a rough laugh. "You?"

"Master Kenobi says...he says that the Dark Side is absolute—that once you've committed to that path, there's no turning back. I think…I can't imagine that fate is that cruel—that he's damned so young, by another's hand." She straightened slightly, voice adamant. "I won't have it."

Han had to smile. "Oh you won't, huh?"

"No."

Beside her, Chewie barked out a low caveat, placing one massive hand on Leia's shoulder like a proud uncle, and Han tipped his head. "That right? Well I should warn you, the kid's no pushover himself, either."

Leia arched her eyebrows. "I can be pretty persistent."

"Yeah? Well he can be pretty headstrong himself… obstinate, wilful…you name it. You know how most humans are made of sixty-five percent water? He's made of sixty-five percent stubborn. Doesn't mean anything, it's just a reflex action…like breathing."

Leia shook her head, short, shoulder length hair swinging to brush the top of her shoulders. "Sixty-five percent isn't that much over fifty…and fifty is just plain undecided."

"…Yeah, you tell him that."

"Well then, what's your approach?" She tilted her head as Han raised his eyes in question. "When we last spoke, you said you were trying to help him."

"Damn, you have a good memory!" Like the kid, Han realized. "It's just…it's a little more complicated than that."

"Well then, we simply have to remove the complications."

He laughed at her mettle; at the indomitable look in her eye. "You really don't take no for an answer much, do you?"

"Not unless it was the answer I wanted. If a thing's worth fighting for, then you should do it—why wouldn't you?"

Han nodded, seeing absolute sense in that, and warming to their similar viewpoints. On impulse he brought his hands, which were loosely clasped one inside the other on the table, forward, and reached out his index finger to touch the back of her hand. It was pale and cool; she had a callous on the inside of her thumb.

"I know exactly where you're coming from."

She leaned back slightly, tilting her head in that appealing way. "You know I'm a Jedi, don't you?"

"Don't let it ever be said that I put my job before my gut feelings." He grinned. "Or somewhere around there."

She arched an eyebrow. "I mean, we have certain boundaries. We don't allow emotional commitments."

Han straightened a fraction. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"C'mon…" He tried a lopsided grin as he leaned closer. "There're exceptions to every rule." She let a smile curl her lips, and Han couldn't take his eyes off them. "Y'know, like TIE pilots who help Wookiees."

"Not this rule, pilot."

He wondered whether to push it…but sat back, grinning. "You're killing me here."

"You give in that easily?" she asked, amused. "I thought you said you didn't take no for an answer."

_Was that a maybe?_ Han leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. "Well it's kinda difficult with two meters of wary Wookiee watchin' my every move." He turned as he said it, voice raising as he stared gamely at Chewie, who loosed a purposely-toothy grin of those clean, white, _big_ incisors. "Kinda cramps my style."

"I don't think you'd let anything do that," Leia said, in that dry, teasing tone. She stood, shimmying out of the booth. "See you around, Solo."

"Hey—you gonna bring Kenobi?"

She glanced down, suddenly solemn. "It's not up to me. All I can do is tell him what you said."

Han too, fell serious. "I think the kid deserves it—and I think Kenobi knows that, regardless of anything else. Tell him that."

Leia stared a second, but nodded without pushing it any further. "I will."

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Han returned to his quarters alternately grinning, then wanting to kick himself for being so stupid as to go—and then just talk to her, like she was anyone! What the hell had he been thinking? He shook his head; of course, he knew damn well what he'd been thinking; he'd been thinking big tawny doe eyes and a mouth that tilted appealingly when she was about to launch some deadpan rebuff with the kind of understated spirit a man could….only not, apparently. Jedi code! What the hell…where did baby Jedi come from, then? That only took his mind back to Luke and Kenobi, and Han's guilt for going at all flared afresh. He shook his head, keying the code into his apartment door and walking down the short, darkwood internal corridor. Damn palace! He was gonna paint the whole place white one day! All mile-square of it.

He hit the lights to his main room—and jumped a foot in the air because Luke was there, lounged sideways on one of the chairs, his back against one arm, legs hanging over the other.

"You're kidding me, right?" the kid said laconically, head tilted. "You have some kind of trouble radar, I swear. But whilst most other people's help keep them away from it, yours drags you towards it."

So much for telling the kid in his own good time. "Oh, you've got room to talk…and how the hell did you get in here?"

"You gave me your lock code, remember?"

"Is this like when I gave you that sixty credits that you took out of my pocket?"

"No, you actually did give me the number." The kid paused. "I knew it anyway, but still, you made the gesture. And speaking of gestures…meeting a Rebel? On Coruscant, no less?"

"What, you do it all the time."

"Yes, but I'm Sith. I can do that kind of thing and not get caught," the kid said with smooth confidence. "Plus if I did, I'd have no problem in handing said Rebel Jedi over. You, on the other hand…" Luke didn't finish the sentence, instead lifting a blue-papered spice stick from his pocket and pulling out his strike-lighter.

Han stepped forward and took it from his mouth, crumbling it between his fingers. "I thought you were off spice."

"I figured this was a special occasion." Again the kid paused. "It _is_ a special occasion, isn't it?"

Han dragged his hand back through his hair, not even sure himself.

"You don't know? You don't know if you want to get arrested, thrown in a cell, interrogated to make sure you didn't hand anything over, then marched out in front of a firing squad?"

"That's rich coming from the guy who dragged me out to meet her in the first place."

"Oh no, you came looking for me that first time."

"And the third time—when you sent me out to meet her alone?"

Luke stood to pat his pockets, clearly looking for another spice stick. "I know, this is all my fault," he said dryly. "Naturally, I should have assumed that you'd fall for the woman who just destroyed the Empire's latest piece of multi-billion-credit technology with the loss of all aboard. What was I thinking?"

Han stared. "Fallen for her? I haven't fallen for her!"

"No? Why did you go alone?"

"She asked me to. I wanted to see what she had to say."

"That could only be said to you—on your own."

"Well you didn't exactly go out of your way to make her comfortable talking to you, last time."

"That's because I have the good sense to keep my enemies at arm's length when I'm using them. It keeps everything so much cleaner." Han glanced down, and Luke let out a disbelieving laugh. "But of course you now think I shouldn't."

"You know, she actually wants to help you," he said quietly.

"Right," the kid said. "Just like when I said I _actually wanted_ to hear about that Baron's munitions plant. The fact that I was trying to find out whether he was sympathetic to the Rebels, didn't enter into it. Because in those kind of situations, dealing with known enemies, we all tell the truth, don't we."

"Get to Kenobi another way—not like this."

"She's the first opportunity I've had to even get close to him in ten years."

"Well then ask her! Tell her the truth and ask her!"

"Yeah, I can just imagine how that conversation would go: 'Here's the thing, see: I'd very much like to talk to the man you clearly worship about the time a few years back, when he led a military incursion into the Imperial palace to try to kill me in my sleep, so eager was he to get rid of me. Oh, and apparently he omitted to mention this to you ever, but I'm also his son. Yes, we do have something of a millennia-old vendetta going, Jedi and Sith, and yes, I'd very much like to address the fact that he's already tried to kill me once, but I hope you won't let that influence your decision as to whether or not you should take me to him'."

"If you tell her, she'll do the right thing."

"Yes—for her own Master! She's loyal to him in the same way that I'm loyal to Palpatine—don't think for a moment otherwise."

Han glanced down. "She asked me that—about you and Palpatine. I told her that it wasn't about that, it was about you needing to talk to Kenobi."

"Oh, you told her that? Tonight?"

"Yeah."

Luke's flat voice was quietly reproving. "You're now passing information about an ongoing action to a Rebel agent, you know that?"

"Ongoing action? It's not an ongoing action, it's your private business."

Kid glanced down, frowning. "Things may have changed."

"How?"

"There's a disturbance in the Force—a shift of events, like a bow-wave coming."

Han lifted his palms up, shaking his head. "What the hell does any of that sentence mean?"

"It means something's about to happen. Something so important that it's impacting on…" Luke hesitated, struggling to put something that was clearly so obvious to him, into words Han could understand. "It's going to change things sufficiently that I can already sense it happening. Whatever it is, it's already started."

Han hesitated, and Luke stepped forward. "What?"

He sighed, and looked up. "I got the feeling that Kenobi's on his way to Coruscant, now. That's what Leia wanted; she wanted to know whether she should let the meeting go ahead."

Luke straightened, eyes widening, and Han knew that he'd just filled in the final blank for the kid. "Here? Why the hell did he come here!"

"He's not here yet. Leia said—"

"This is too big. Palpatine will know…if I've sensed the disturbance then he will have, too." Luke turned about on the spot, then back to Han, increasingly agitated. "I didn't think he'd come to Coruscant…is he insane!"

"You said you wanted to meet him."

"Not here! Palpatine will…" The kid broke off, caught once again between warring loyalties; his knowledge that he should hand Kenobi over to Palpatine and…and what?"

"You don't want to hand Kenobi over, do you?"

"If Palpatine becomes involved, Kenobi's dead—instantly. For the first damn time ever, I'm doing something that I want to do—that I _need_ to do! I won't get this chance again. Even if I handed him over to Palpatine alive, I wouldn't get this chance."

_Even if…_Han straightened, realization crawling under his skin. Until now, he'd assumed that Luke had wanted to do exactly what he would want to do in this situation; to shout, to demand answers, maybe even accuse, but…his memory dredged up Luke's claim to Leia:

'_I've no intentions of hauling Kenobi before the Emperor to answer for his crimes, I assure you. If he ever stands before my Master, it won't be my doing.'_

Luke wouldn't have told a direct lie to a Jedi; that was how this worked—how the kid had taught Han himself: misdirection, not lies… And both of the scenarios the kid had named to Leia required that Kenobi be alive.

"You're gonna try to kill him, aren't you? Is that what this is about?"

Luke looked away, jaw set. "There's no _try _about it."

Han stared for long seconds… "You won't do it. I don't believe you could."

The kid straightened, resolve written in his every move…but it was half-front and Han knew it, though that only seemed to make Luke angrier. "Think of it as following in my father's footsteps—he seemed more than capable of coming after me when I was eleven."

"Even if you did, how would you explain that to the Emperor?"

"If he'd met me away from Coruscant, as any sane man would have done, it wouldn't have been a problem! Now he's come here…" Luke paused. "I'll tell Palpatine everything—after the event. If Palpatine finds out Kenobi's here, he won't even let me close."

Han shook his head, thoughts on what he'd said to Leia, as well as the stupidity of Luke going against Palpatine's wishes in this—not on killing Kenobi; he didn't believe Luke would do that, not when it came down to it. But the kid had said often enough that the Old Man went insane if he even mentioned Kenobi's name, let alone admitted that he'd purposely deceived Palpatine for the express intention of speaking to him. "That won't be enough, and you know it. You said yourself that this is the one thing…" Han broke off as that cold, creeping comprehension rolled up his spine again in realization of Luke's hope to offset the Old Man's fury: _I'll tell Palpatine everything_. "You're actually thinking of handing Leia over to Palpatine, aren't you?"

Luke looked down without speaking, and Han felt his anger rise. "You said you'd let her go."

"I can't protect her—not now that she's brought Kenobi here."

"Hells, Luke, there are some things you just don't do!"

"No, there are some things _you_ don't do. This is exactly what I do, I made no bones about that, ever. I would have helped her if I could—for you—but I can't, not now. I should have handed her over a long time ago, we both know that…but I held back. This is why you shouldn't get involved; this is why you _never_ get involved. You just smile and you fake it, but you don't ever let them in."

Han straightened. "Does that include me too?"

"You're putting me on the spot?" Luke asked. "For doing my duty?"

"No, I'm putting you on the spot for doing as you're ordered without bothering to think for yourself. Without bothering to look at the consequences. That's why you don't let people in—it's so much easier to do whatever you're told that way, right?"

"I'm not going to apologize for living up to the expectations placed on me by the Emperor."

"Is that what you thought about Toprawa?"

Luke's eyes narrowed, injured at the accusation. "You think I regret it? I don't. I regret your involvement, but Bria Tharen was a Rebel and a traitor…just like Leia."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Han asked, incredulous. "You need to take a good long look at yourself and what you're doing in your precious Emperor's name."

"No, _Lieutenant_, you do." The kid straightened, on the defensive. "You need to stand in front of a mirror and take a look at that uniform you're wearing…and try to live up to it. Since you're so damned determined to teach me some principles, the least you could do is have a few of your own."

Han blinked, shocked…and fury soon followed. "That's it, I'm done with this. I'm done with this whole place and I'm sure as hell done with you."

"Well then get out."

"Get out? Fine, how's this: I quit! I'm done."

"Get out!"

Han wheeled about and strode out without once looking back, ignoring the fact that it was his apartment, or the way that the door slammed home on its runners as only Luke had the ability to make them do.

He marched down dour corridors in furious silence, jaw clamped, lips a thin line. He'd had it—he'd had it with the kid, with this whole crazy place. Let them court-martial him, he didn't care! Anything would be better than this. He paced for a few minutes more before turning about and heading out of the palace, intending to make his way on foot to the Shades. Let anyone dare try to mug him tonight…just let 'em try!

It took him a half-hour of walking, one block out and ten blocks down at a time, to clear his head sufficiently that he slowed to a halt, looking about. Damn, he needed a drink! He glanced about to orient himself, and was far enough down from the higher levels that the cantinas here were a mix of mid and low-level, populated by beings looking to have some fun or ply their trade without trouble. There were enough cantinas and tapcafes to have a choice, many of which Han knew well by now, so he passed the first, which was too classy, and the second, which was way too loud, and entered the smoke-filled main room of the third, walking straight to the busy bar and catching one of the barstaff's eye.

"Corellian ale…in fact, make it a chaser."

"With?"

"Armanth. Double."

Flicking her lekku behind her back as she glanced briefly at his uniform, the Twi'lek pulled the ale with professional ease, turning to lift an ornate bottle from the shelf as the ale glass filled, so that ale and chaser arrived together.

"That'll be nine-sixty."

An older man serving behind the bar stepped up as she held out her hand. "S'okay, Sinda," he glanced to Han. "These are on the kid in the corner. Your lucky night."

Confused, Han glanced through the crowd…and sitting on a stool against the wall, a loose half-smile on his face, was Luke.

Han turned back to the bar for a moment, glaring at his drink…then he shook his head wryly and rolled his eyes skyward, before gathering his drinks and heading toward him. "I don't believe it. How the hell did you get here?"

"I walked, like you did."

"I mean how did you know I'd come to…you know what, don't even bother to answer that." He downed his short, swallowing a few times against the fire which burned a hot trail into his stomach, before looking at the kid again. "You are an absolute asshole sometimes, you know that?"

"I do."

"You treat people like dirt..."

"I know."

"You mess with their heads."

"I do."

"You continually try to push 'em away,"

"True."

"Then just when they think they're finally getting to understand you, you explode in their faces."

"I know."

"And quit just agreeing with me an' grinning."

Calming a little, Han glanced down, unable to stay mad when the kid was giving on everything he said. Sighing, he shook his head. "Why d'you do it, huh? You let people get so close, then you just…"

"Freak out."

"Exactly!"

"I know."

"Stop agreeing with me!"

The bartender leaned over the bar to catch Luke's attention. "Hey—the officer's ale and chaser…that's nine-sixty."

Luke glanced back to Han. "Can I borrow some credits?"

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.

It was near dawn by the time they got back to the palace, the soft, frost-laden light setting a serene haze to the massive structure's steep angles and looming bulk as it disappeared into the low clouds, its unremittingly dark blue stone softened to a misted indigo.

The comlink on the kid's belt buzzed, and he ignored it, instead turning to Han. "I was thinking…"

"About the fact that you owe me nine credits sixty?" Han joked loosely.

"What you said—about your leaving." There was no smile on the kid's face this time. Instead he hesitated for long seconds… "You were probably right; you should."

"…What?"

"You should go—leave. I can get you a full discharge, and you could go where you want. Start again and…"

"Wait a minute, why would I go?"

Luke's head turned briefly to Han, though he wouldn't meet his eyes. "Why would you stay?"

His comlink buzzed again, and this time Luke lifted it to look at the ID, then turned it off.

Han frowned. "Are you gonna answer that?"

"No, it's just Indo. If you left now, you could—"

"I'm not leaving. That was just you driving me insane."

"You have to go." There was something determined and desperate in the kid's voice. "You can't stay here any longer."

"You're kidding, right?" Han dismissed. "I haven't gotten nearly my credits' worth outta these uniforms. They haven't even stopped itching yet."

The kid wouldn't be cajoled. "I'm serious. I shouldn't have brought you here in the first place. People…they don't stay with me very long—or they don't stay in one piece."

"Gorn stays, and he's in one piece."

Luke half-smiled. "You think I'd've come out here after Gorn? And before you start defending him, I know there's nothing wrong with Gorn, he's just…I don't even know his first name."

"Therne."

"Really? Actually, that kinda suits him." Luke shook his head. "The point is, I'll have forgotten that tomorrow."

"No, you won't. Indo's endless hours of tutoring—you remember everything."

"No, I remember things that are useful—things of value. Therne, I'll forget…and that's the point. Haven't you worked it out yet, Han? Or did you just not listen, no matter how many times they all told you—because they're right. I'm…" he laughed sourly, "I'm a dangerous man to know."

Han came to a stop. "No, you're not—Palpatine is. And he's just as dangerous to you as everyone else. Remember that."

"I can take care of myself."

Always that mantra; wouldn't let anyone else even try. "How, by doing whatever the Old Man tells you? 'Cos it seems to me like you've been doin' that for a long time now…and how's that working out?"

Luke shook his head. "You can't…you can't say things like that. Things like that make people disappear. I can't protect you—not from him."

"Luke, d'you want to be that guy who just does whatever the hell he's ordered for the rest of his life? You've spent years with all these damn tutors, learning all this stuff, and in everything they've taught you, they haven't taught the one thing you actually need—they haven't taught you to think for yourself."

"I'll be out of here inside a year."

"No, you won't, you'll never be out of here, 'cos you'll just carry it with you wherever you go. And don't tell me that's not so bad, because we both know the truth. You want me to leave? I'll let you in on a secret: I can't wait to go…when you come with me."

"You know I can't do that."

"You stay here and you're dead."

"So are you."

Han frowned…and the military comlink at his belt chose that moment to buzz an incoming comm. He lifted it—Indo. "Yeah?"

Even on the comm, the Viscount oozed disdain. "May I assume that you are presently with Luke, Lieutenant Solo?"

"Uhhh…"

At least he didn't wait for the excuse.

"Please inform him that the Emperor issued a command almost an hour ago, summoning Luke to his presence immediately."

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Having no spice on him, Luke was forced to make a brief detour to his own apartment before he felt ready to answer the summons, though he knew it would delay him further, and had no idea what Han would say when he reappeared with it. As Luke entered, thoughts on what he'd say to Han, Gorn stepped from the cluttered staffroom beside the door, his face somber. For a second Luke stared, wondering why he was here at all, at this hour. Gorn remained still, face solemn—and Luke glanced down the long corridor and into the three-room enfilade which led to his own rooms, knowing…

At the end of the last room, standing to either side of the mirrored doors, were two Red Guard.

Royal Guards, here; Luke's heart skipped a beat, skipped another. His Master rarely deigned to come down here, invading the one safe haven that Luke had. Was he here now to find out why his summons had been ignored for over an hour…or did he know something? Anything—everything. Was this a dangerous accusation, or a simple reprimand?

He faltered to a stop as Gorn still stared, pointedly avoiding announcing the Emperor's presence, so that Luke could have simply turned and walked from his apartment; avoided this entirely. On Palpatine's order, he no longer left himself visible within the Force—his Master wouldn't know he was standing at the doors to his own apartment right now.

But he'd pick it out of Gorn's head if he had to wait too long, and so Gorn would face his wrath—and for nothing, because even if Luke managed to get out of the palace right now, he'd have to come back eventually.

Beside Luke, Han slowed, eyes on Gorn. "What the hell are you doin' here at…"

He trailed off, seeing the Royal Guard.

Luke pursed his lips and nodded once in unspoken thanks to Therne, then walked on towards the mirrored divide, knowing Palpatine was waiting beyond its broken reflections.

.

At the end of the enfilade in the Red Room, Indo turned from where he stood to one side, stock-straight, hands clasped tightly together, face dour. His glare went immediately to Han, probably already suspecting that something was going on, and believing that Han would be involved somehow—in fact, he likely believed that Han was instigating it once again, despite Luke's repeated dismissals. He had, of late, become a niggling voice in Luke's ear, taking any opportunity to cite Han's insubordination his flagrant disregard for authority as dangerous examples to follow, with only one eventual outcome.

Luke hesitated, glancing back to Han, voice a quiet murmur. "Wait here."

"I'm coming in."

"No, too much is fresh in your mind."

"I can—"

"Not this time. Not with him." Luke quickly took the civilian comlink from his pocket and handed it over to Han, looking to give him something to do, to stop the argument that was already forming on his lips. "Here. If it sounds, it'll be Leia. Tell her I'll meet wherever she wants, tonight." He hesitated at Han's misgivings. "I won't hand her over."

"What'll you tell Palpatine?" Han asked quietly, eyes on the Royal Guard.

Luke didn't reply but walked on, thoughts on exactly that, given his words to Han. He reminded himself afresh to play the game his Master had taught him by so many harsh examples: never lie. Lies are easy to detect. Always tell the truth, just never the facts.

A few days' delay, that was all. Once he'd spoken with Kenobi, he'd tell his Master everything—save Han's involvement. But if Palpatine pulled the truth from Luke now, he'd refuse him the opportunity to go after Kenobi; deny him any contact, Luke knew that.

If he held silent now, and went to face Kenobi alone then yes, he would pay, he would be punished. But it would be too late for his Master to change anything or forbid him. It would be done. He would have faced his father.

Whatever the cost, it was worth that.

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The high doors swept open in silence, and Luke entered the unlit room, turning immediately to the bank of windows which looked out over the dawning city, knowing that was where his Master stood.

Dressed in dark vermillion robes, a wide cowl of figured velvet hiding his features, Palpatine didn't turn, eyes and attention remaining on the sprawl of the ecumenpolis below.

The doors closed as Luke knelt in genuflection in the empty room, deeply uneasy at his Master being here in his one safe haven, and waited…

And waited. Palpatine remained still, his back to Luke, the heavy train of his ruby robes pooled at his feet.

Was he waiting for Luke to offer something? Guilt-ridden panic began to slowly congeal in the pit of his stomach. Was he being given on last chance to tell Palpatine everything, now? Did he give up this one chance, this only chance—because that was what it would be, if he told his Master; Kenobi would be found and killed in short order, and Luke's only opportunity to ever put his past to rest would be gone.

And he couldn't give that up…wouldn't.

Head lowered, he felt a spear of regret at the realization that he hadn't had spice in over a week. He should have taken it; stupid, to listen to Solo. If he'd not stopped, he would likely have known no more of the disturbance than the vague awareness that his Master had, so that when he faced him now, Luke wouldn't even have had to lie. Wouldn't have had to worry what he could and couldn't hide from his Master when—

Luke's thoughts paused as he wondered, quite suddenly and for the first time, whether that dangerous, deep-buried knowledge that his Master's attunement was not as finely balanced as his own, could actually save him…because it afforded him more subtle control; the ability to hide beneath even his Master's close scrutiny. His heart missed a beat, then pounded in his chest, at the very notion…

Without turning Palpatine spoke, grating voice low and demanding. "What has happened?"

His tone was distant and distracted, but no less the threat for it. Again the knowledge of what he was considering beat against Luke's resolve—but the words came from him without conscious thought. "I don't know, Master."

"But something has happened…and you did not think to come to me?" Luke lowered his head further in silence, and Palpatine continued quietly, as if considering. "I sense a disturbance in the Force…fractured and diffuse."

The muscles of his back twitched involuntarily as Luke struggled to suppress the desire to automatically raise further shields in place, instead working to veil only the thoughts and memories of speaking with Leia, knowing that her presence was what his Master had sensed.

"It is not the first time I have sensed this disturbance." His Master turned, the pallid glow of dawn rendering his raised cowl a hollow pit from which sulphurous yellow eyes gleamed brightly. "And it is, therefore, not the first time that you have sensed it."

Luke glanced down, then immediately made himself meet his Master's eyes. They narrowed, the rustle of heavy cloth marking a sideways tilt of his head, as his Master regarded him. "And so what did you see, my little blue-eyed boy?"

He blinked, mind racing to pitch logic against long-ingrained fears. What did his Master know, and what was nothing more than vague words which Luke read his own guilt into?

He was so close—so close to speaking with his father, to asking him why. Why he'd deserted his son. Why, knowing Luke was alive, he'd still abandoned him here, to this. So close to the truths that had been withheld, to the answers he'd craved for as long as he could remember…

Han's words still rang fresh in his mind: _"You've spent years with all these damn tutors, and in everything they've taught you, they haven't taught the one thing you actually need—they haven't taught you to think for yourself."_

He straightened his back, sure that his Master must be able to hear the pound of his heart. He'd never lied to him—not like this, face to face. He hadn't even done that with the Death Star. He'd made his report while still onboard the _Vendetta_, and had never been asked to re-state any of it—never been given the the chance to offer validations or caveats. Palpatine had been far beyond listening to anything, by the time Luke reached Coruscant to face him. _To face him_…did he risk that fury again, now, for abstract answers that should no longer even matter?

He stared into his Master's eyes. _Just in this—only this once, in this…_

"Nothing, Master—I saw nothing." It was said too quickly and he knew it, his shock at his own daring throwing him off-center.

"No?" Palpatine stepped forward and leaned down to take Luke's chin in his hand, using the motion to prompt him to stand. Luke rose, his Master's hand still holding him lightly, something that had always unsettled him. Palpatine smiled just slightly, leaning forward. "Then why are you afraid, child?"

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Even touching the boy's face, Palpatine could sense nothing in the Force, and momentarily regretted his order just months ago, that the boy should conceal his presence. He could of course rescind that order, but to do so now would have been an admission both of an error in ordering the boy to do such in the first place, and of his own inability to read him now. Still, he needed no Force contact to see the slight widening of the boy's eyes, or feel him shrink back from his Master's hand.

He wasn't blind. He knew the boy had the potential to be more powerful than himself. Power was a wonderful gift, given to be used, and under his careful tutelage the boy had learned to do just that, left from childhood to hold his own against the likes of Vader. And he was certainly coming of age—even Vader had noticed that…or rather, had fallen prey to it, in their recent duel. Yes, despite his reluctance to use them, the boy's sporadic powers had begun to expand and develop, of late. And it was an interesting conundrum, for Palpatine…because much as he'd thought that he had wanted this—wanted the boy to finally realize his potential to serve—in fact he'd found that the more the boy's abilities expanded, the less sure Palpatine had become…the more threatened.

But then power itself wasn't everything. Palpatine prided himself on the knowledge that he was an exemplary tactician, a consummate manipulator…and he was confident that it was this that gave him the edge over the boy, just as it had with his father, when Anakin was still at the height of his power. Though his methods, of course, were very different this time.

In this instance, what was important was not the power Palpatine held, but his willingness to use it. Like training a wild nek, one had to be always ready to demonstrate one's dominance. Obviously the animal was stronger and faster, the clear advantage held, but if a trainer owned it from infancy and had never hesitated to use force to demonstrate what was, at that time, his own superior strength, then such lessons were written deep into the creature's psyche, and the trainer's willingness to take any opportunity to underline and reinforce those beliefs maintained such perceptions, despite changing circumstances.

And so the boy now stood, wide-eyed and nervous, eager to please and deferring completely to his Master's will…as it should be. As it had been with Maul, before him. Anakin…Anakin had been the exception to the rule, and proof of its efficacy; had he held Anakin from childhood, had he trained the young boy's mind and honed his body and his skill, then he was confident that the duel at Mustafar would have come to a very different conclusion, and Anakin's power would have remained intact. As it was…Vader knew no more of what this present Force-disturbance was than Palpatine did.

It had been deeply gratifying in so many ways, that Anakin had lost all that had set him above Palpatine…but deeply galling, too. Because at the time, with that power gone, Palpatine had wondered where he could possibly turn, to recreate it…

He smiled at the boy. "Tell me all that you see?"

"Master?"

"Now." Palpatine kept his voice quiet; one did not need to shout, to convey a demand. "Tell me what you see, right now."

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Still wary, Luke closed his eyes and opened his mind, answering instantly the command in his Master's voice.

The flow of the Force rushed like a river around him. A thousand images: the minds and thoughts and intentions of those close by. The grating presence of his Master just steps away; the absolute confidence, the simmering resentment which Luke knew he fired by his very presence, which he'd never quite understood. It came like a tide about him as he cast his mind outwards, a flood of information and awareness which he immersed himself within, allowing it to saturate his senses without picking any single course to follow. "I see…nothing. Nothing specific."

Cool fingers slid down about his throat without tightening, as his Master's voice came in a whisper.

"Look closer."

Falling further back within its embrace, Luke tilted his head, attuning himself to the myriad of feelings and emotions which resonated within the Force; snatches of thoughts and memories tumbled briefly in crystal clarity then fell back into the flow as he released them, widening his senses, but without truly looking for traces or allusions. "There's nothing. People, moments…"

"Look closer."

His Master's voice, as much sensed as heard now. He saw himself, briefly, through his Master's eyes. Sensed the complex mix of greed and antipathy which had pushed the grasping hand to slide lightly from his chin and rest about his throat…

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Palpatine loosed an open-lipped smile, appreciative of the power he sensed being wielded, finally seeing the potential he'd always known should exist, from the very first time he'd seen that seven-year-old boy, eyes wide, knowing in a way that no child ever should that his life was unravelling because of the dark-dressed man standing before him. Years of careful manipulation had been invested, praise and punishment both, into controlling the boy absolutely, and now…now he was finally seeing all of that power and potential come to fruition.

He watched, fascinated, aware of the connection that the boy harnessed so naturally, just as his father had once done, an attenuation which surpassed any before, developing more every day, now. It had always drawn him, this locus of power; had always filled him with pride that he had guided it, and resentment that he himself did not hold it. He stepped in, the only sound of his movement the whispering drag of heavy fabric, as he paused before the boy.

"Look closer," he murmured, pushing him on for no other reason now than to see the extent of his power.

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Luke frowned, spurred into refining the connection ever more precisely, though he let it slide unnoticed past the disturbance itself—he didn't want to see it; didn't want to sense it. Instead he pushed further, looking to hide the omission with escalating contact in an ever-widening field. The Capital, the continent, the planet…

The slightest tremor of a breath touched his face, and abruptly Luke was aware of Palpatine, so close that he could sense the old man's breath on his cheek, feel cold fingertips touch lightly against the fine hairs on his face—

He pulled back, awareness returning in a rush of incandescent intensity, incredible synthesis centered on a single spot, a single point of awareness…

…and he saw.

For a fraction of an instant, everything was clear, everything was lucid, everything remained in focus, from the single breath of an old man to the turning of a galaxy…

_That background scratch, that he sensed occasionally at the very edge of his heightened senses; a presence completely familiar yet somehow removed, a fraction displaced, a shade offset. That nebulous feeling of fractured familiarity, like a well-known tune in the wrong key. _

He jerked just slightly, and his Master was there instantly, pushing for more. "What do you see?"

"Nothing—it's not the disturbance. It's…"

_A building, hunched and stark against a darkened sky of roiling clouds. Musty corridors, cold and empty. A secret, long-hidden in the dark of dour corridors and dusty rooms. _

"Look closer…"

Obeying without thinking, Luke focused on it; completely, intently, every fraction of power turned to it…

"Tell me." His Master's voice, from far away.

"A corridor…very long and very dark. Well hidden."

"Where is it?"

"Very close…and very far away."

"Which?"

"Both. In the center of everything." He sensed the frustration flare in his Master, but they both knew that Force visions were never as simple as sight alone.

"Where does it lead?" hissed Palpatine.

"I don't know. It's barred."

"Physically?"

"And mentally."

Palpatine frowned, frustration curling into annoyance, which gnawed within Luke's awareness. "Break the bars"

Luke blanched. "I can't."

"Why?"

"I…shouldn't, I don't think."

"Why?"

"I don't know—but I shouldn't breach this." He knew it absolutely; this was forbidden territory.

His Master's frustration bored into him. So much of Palpatine was visible to Luke in this heightened state, so he sensed with shared clarity the shadow of uncertainty which rippled down his Master's spine to settle like a cold weight within. Sensed his Master's knowledge that something was wrong; something closed in about him, perfectly hidden. "Break the bars."

"They're too strong."

"You haven't tried."

"I can't." The answer—the knowledge—was categorical.

Palpatine gritted his teeth. "Then find another way in. Subtlety, subterfuge. Find a way."

"I can't."

"Do as I tell you!"

Luke sensed the distant shock which ran through his body from his Master's hand, but he was too detached, too widely spread within the Force, for the physical to be real. Only the demand remained. And he could do this, he knew; could force his way in, or could creep around and through defenses that were near-perfect. Because near-perfect was _im_perfect…

With effortless, innate dexterity, he scattered himself lighter, ever more delicate, ever more elusive, until the solid became insubstantial—or perhaps that was himself.

Passing so subtly that it was without even a tremor, he paused, taking measure. _A memory—a knowledge, as expertly hidden as the building which crouched, squat and dark and foreboding. Endless halls, dim and unused…a room. Technology; automated, ongoing. The precise, synchronized tack of mechanical movement, the steady, regulated hubbub of air in fluid…and everywhere, a dark, intense red. Every surface in this place; in this one room._ "Underground," he said at last, though it was more a general awareness than the image coalescing. "It's underground, enclosed…technology…air in water." He heard that sound distinctly, the low babble of bubbles in liquid—smelled the tang of medically sterilized fluid.

It hit him again with an almost physical force: "I shouldn't be here."

"Why? Show me what you sense." His Master's voice, clipped by impatience.

That familiar weight, that inevitable blunting burden as his Master climbed inside his thoughts…then something twisted. His awareness seemed to turn within itself and inside out, ripping violently away to leave Luke gasping.

"What happened? " His Master shook him as Luke struggled against the shock. "Answer me!"

"I don't…it was you—the connection broke apart because of you. I shouldn't have been there anyway." Why did he keep repeating that—why did he feel a surge of guilt dragging him down, that he'd refined the vision, even at his Master's command? What stood equal to that? Because something had. Some conviction had pushed with equal influence, and even now had the power to hold him to silence.

"What did you see?"

"I didn't…I didn't see anything, Master."

"You said you saw technology…air in water."

Luke searched, one thought still clear-cut —perhaps because it wasn't a part of the vision itself, but connected with it, in some fundamental way. "You knew…you knew that something was wrong; something closed in, hidden."

Immediately his Master's hold slackened, eyes becoming distant. "I sensed…some spectre that hovered, unseen." That strong hand loosed him entirely and Palpatine brought it to his own throat, as if feeling some invisible force tighten there. "Something comes…something stalks, wrapped about with a pitch black cloak of—"

Ocher eyes flicked open as Palpatine paused, and Luke knew instantly who his Master suspected. He'd sensed all that his Master had; the vaguest awareness of a distant threat, indistinct as shadows shifting on the tides of a night sea, whilst changing events ebbed and flowed about it.

But then his Master had never needed the tangible; suspicions were sufficient to push him to conclusions. "Perhaps the man who has served me for so long, now covets the throne for himself."

"Then remove him." All else was momentarily forgotten beneath the chance to gain this. What had begun as a vague hope to distract from Leia Skywalker's presence, had taken on greater import with the opportunity to bring down Vader. "You said you'd give me this—this chance to face him."

"When you were ready."

"I'm ready now, Master—let me prove it."

Palpatine brought one pale hand back to Luke's cheek as if in affection. "You are a good child."

If he'd dared, he would have knocked his Master's hand away, frustrated by the epithet that he hadn't yet managed to shrug free of, and Palpatine knew it. As it was, he shook his head, voice halfway between appeal and demand. "I'm not a child. Let me prove it—let me duel him!"

Palpatine raised his wrinkled brow, his words harsh though his sense was almost indulgent. "And if he took your head from your shoulders? Years of work, spent moulding something of value from the crude little creature that came here, would have been wasted."

"His only advantage is strength, and I'd pick my arena. I'd never be fool enough to fight him in an enclosed space—you taught me better than that. Master, this is connected—this is all connected, I can sense that." Whatever Vader had seen when he'd claimed earlier that the disturbance was connected to Luke, he was wrong—it had been Vader; this was all connected to Vader!

Palpatine's eyes narrowed. "What do you sense, that makes you see this?"

Without thinking, Luke turned his awareness outward, an expansion without check, cast widely and aggressively, searching for the nuance that had made him so sure. Instantly he found something new in the subtle undercurrent of the Force about him, and grasped for it.

It existed scattered within the space between awareness and intuition…he tilted his head, searching to single out that mote in the storm, that flaw in the uniform…

He sensed Leia's presence at a distance; knew it distinctly, an unmistakeable fusion of compassion and boldness. Something within him warmed at it, but he pushed it aside, focusing past it and through it…a second presence separated out, distinct and enigmatic, almost perfectly concealed, even to him—and Luke knew with a terrible realization who it was. He withdrew hastily, dropping a fog over his thoughts. A brief moment; a flicker of awareness as an old man's voice, tinged with amicable bemusement, sounded a future echo: _"I can tell you everything…everything that's been withheld."_

Luke opened his eyes, staring at his Master for long moments…

"What did you see?" That rasping grasp; an instant, avaricious demand.

Kenobi was here, now. Luke remained still, the moment convulsive with possibilities…

"It's gone." He lied directly to Palpatine. Looked his Master in the eye and lied to him. "It's gone, now, whatever it was. Vader's connected though, I know it."

His Master's gaze held for long seconds, something sinister in his stillness. And Luke stayed silent, held centered, a thousand shields in place as he looked to his Master without blinking…

And finally Palpatine smiled, pale lips against stained teeth, and once more asked the only question that had ever seemed to hold any true relevance to him. The only thing he had ever required of Luke: "Will you always be my servant, child?"

Luke scanned his Master's face, needs and desires skewing wildly again as he considered all that he wanted…to see Kenobi, to stand face to face with him and ask his father why he had deserted him—to look him in the eyes as he said it. To demand why he'd been abandoned in favor of his father's precious cause, his Rebellion. To ask him why he'd been so willing to murder his own flesh and blood when Luke was still a child, when it was Kenobi's fault—his fault—that Luke had come to serve the other side of his war. How many nights as a child had he laid awake, cold and trembling and lost, with those thoughts racing through his mind? How many times as he'd faced his Master's vicious temper, had he wondered why his father had discarded him so completely? How many questions burned…

One chance…one chance to ask and find the truth. Answers that only his father would know, closure that only Kenobi could give. And hadn't his Master always taught that one should use any means to gain what one needed?

He let out the breath he'd held in frozen lungs and locked chest; forced the barest hint of a smile to his lips as he held his Master's gaze. "I'll always be as you made me, Master. Everything that I am, I am because of you."

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Standing to tense attention as he waited for either the Emperor or Luke to walk from the enfilade, Indo became aware that Solo, still standing to the far side of the big, austere room, was watching him. He turned briefly, and the Corellian's chin lifted a fraction, eyes narrowing.

Indo turned away with studied disinterest, his thoughts on the boy rather than Solo. He'd been aware since Toprawa that something had been going on between the two, some secret that they kept to themselves, and was growing less patient by the day with it. Solo was a wayward influence on Luke, when Indo had worked so hard to bring him this far. He knew now what the Emperor's intention was; that Solo would be tolerated here for just this test, to see whether Luke would learn to turn his back of his own accord. As a consequence, Indo had remained silent, knowing that the Emperor would wish no compromise of his test…but it was difficult, as the boy fell ever more under Solo's influence. Turning back, Indo became aware from the Corellian's tenseness that something was wrong tonight—more so than usual—and curious as to why Luke hadn't taken Solo in with him. Perhaps he knew of the Emperor's muted dislike of the man.

Realizing that he was under scrutiny, Solo turned to stare at Indo again, then looked slowly away to walk to the wide span of windows, where dawn was beginning to soften the sky to the gray tones of early morning. He didn't try to speak to Indo about Luke's role here any more, present or future; he knew such pointless complaints would fall on deaf ears.

The comlink in Solo's hand—the one that Luke had quickly given him—sounded a chime, and he strode quickly from the room, bringing it to his mouth. Indo listened to his receding footsteps and murmured words as he walked the full length of the enfilade, probably specifically to be sure that Indo couldn't hear what was said.

To the majority—Solo included—Indo knew he was considered a cold, calculating man of acute, even blinkered focus, who pushed his charge to the very limits. He didn't particularly care—their opinions were unimportant. For himself, Indo had found a mission in life, one that coincided with the goals of the Emperor himself, no less, and that was to make Luke Antilles all that he could be. If it was necessary to push the boy for that, then yes, he would do so—without hesitation.

But despite all the steps that Indo had taken to prevent it, it seemed that Luke was growing away from him now. Solo was getting too close, sufficiently so that Indo was beginning to feel his own influence slip, and he hadn't invested so much for so long, to see his labor lost now simply because some wayward ex-pilot had elbowed his way into Luke's life, causing him nothing but grief along the way. There was clearly more that had happened during that fateful day of the Death Star's destruction, for instance. Indo wasn't blind—and he certainly wasn't stupid. Solo's influence here was becoming dangerous…to Luke, and therefore to all of Indo's intentions for the boy. And that alone was reason to remove him.

All this upheaval, for the sake of one more lesson… The boy had been exposed to many over the years, and it had always been left to Indo to pick up the pieces, as it would be this time after Solo's removal, he was sure. Though it had become easier over the years, as Luke had learned not to leave himself vulnerable…which left Indo all the more baffled that the boy should choose to do so now.

What particular lesson had been taught with the Emperor's customary clinical efficiency on the day that Luke had first been handed over into Indo's care, he did not know; to this day, Luke would not speak of it. But at the time, the sight of the traumatized child who had withstood four long years of vindictive maltreatment had fired something within Indo which had been impossible to ignore.

By this time, Indo's own son, the reason for his existence and the center of his plans for so long, was dead. Everything, _everything_ that he had centered his life on, was gone in an instant, in the space of a lost breath. All his work, all his ambitions for Dubrail, endless years of tireless coaching and schooling and advancing. All gone…

Eleven months. Eleven months he lived in a gray and empty world, adhering to hollow duties…

Until he had been summoned to a private audience with the Emperor, and once again been given a direction. The Emperor had even commiserated with Indo for his loss. Had commended the way in which he had always sought to guide his son's future; channel the boy's potential. Could he do it again, Palpatine had asked? Could he take another charge, and turn raw potential into realized capability? Could he start tonight?

The child delivered to Indo later that night was completely unresponsive—so much so that he had summoned a medic for fear that the boy had sustained an injury or suffered some kind of seizure. Luke was taken to the Palace medicenter where he remained locked in this still, impassive state for days, reacting to nothing, neither eating nor drinking despite his malnourished state.

So it had been Indo who first coaxed words from the silent, slight, malnourished child. Indo who had lifted him, feather-light, skin and bone, back into the bed which he would always crawl beneath when left alone. Had quietly removed the small hoards of food he would hide about his rooms for fear of being starved again. Had rearranged the furniture of his bedroom again and again, when the boy was strong enough to begin to drag it into the corner to make a makeshift hide-away, night after night. Had gradually tried to direct the uncannily silent, insular child back to a more balanced state.

It was a long time coming, but within that tolerance came acceptance—a connection.

The turning point, strangely enough, had been the annual ceremony to commemorate the Emperor's accession, and though it was only months after he'd been delivered to Indo, Palpatine had decreed that Luke would attend. The boy had been outside only once in the last four years, and that had been only five months earlier when, dressed in new clothes and practically dragged by Palpatine from the Throne Room to the Great Hall which led out onto the long stretch of the Pageant Balcony, he had been hauled, struggling mutely, into the wide open space and the bright light of day. The crowds which had been waiting in their thousands on the terraces far below for their Emperor's appearance, had loosed a mutual roar of recognition which had cut the air like the rumble of thunder, prolongued and deeply intimidating in its scale—all the more so at this distance, where their numbers blurred into a sprawling, crawling mass as they surged forward.

Luke had stood frozen on the balcony for less than a minute, gripped tightly the whole time by the Emperor. When he'd finally been allowed back into the Hall his nerve had failed him and he'd crumpled against the wall, hunching forward as he'd heaved short, wracked breaths which shook his whole frame. Like everyone else Indo had glanced, just once, to the disturbed child, wondering at the Emperor's actions—because they would have had a purpose.

But he'd done nothing more—nobody ever did.

Now, he found himself responsible for the boy's second steps into daylight in four years. New, tailored clothes befitting his station were ordered, boots were measured and fitted, his wild hair cut short. Nothing elicited any reaction.

By Indo's nervous arrangement, a tracker had been sewn into the lining of the boy's shirt, and another placed in the heel of his boot, in case he bolted. Guards were assigned.

The morning was bright and sunny as the cortege made their way down through the palace for the short journey to the huge, grand, Congregation Hall to one side of the palace grounds, traditionally used for all large events requiring the attendance of planetary representatives and the Royal Houses.

Holding tightly to a handful of fabric at the silent boy's shoulder despite his obvious unease at this, Indo had walked Luke to the private gardens on the top of the public levels of the palace, where a fleet of black speeders awaited to take dignitaries to the event.

At the high double-doors the boy had stopped dead with such force that Indo stumbled to a halt, and looked down to see the boy standing at the threshold, squinting in the light, eyes darting cautiously. They stared at each other in silence, Indo unsure what was wrong. For a long time they remained like this, Indo frowning, the boy glancing back to the guards behind him then down to the threshold again, deeply uncertain.

"Outside," he'd said simply at last, his voice very small.

"Outside," Indo acknowledged, hiding his surprise at the breaking of this self-imposed silence.

"Outside here?" The slight, pale boy had drawn his clenched, scarred hands to his chest in uncertainty, and finally, Indo realized both what he was asking of the child, and what he was offering him.

"Whenever you wish," he'd assured.

Gently taking hold of his sleeve, Indo had stepped over the threshold and into the bright warmth of the sun. The boy still hesitated, feet planted, forcing Indo to pull lightly as Luke had leaned back in resistance, unmoving, as if unable to make that final step.

Finally Indo stepped back inside the threshold, taking a gamble. "Another day, perhaps."

The boy took a step back into the shadows of the room and Indo thought the bluff had failed… But then he shook his arm free, pursed his lips and, lifting his hand to shield his eyes against the daylight, took two quick, tense steps out into the sun...then froze, turning back to look at Indo and the guards beyond.

Understanding the import of the moment, the difficulty and the daring of the act, Indo had smiled. Luke simply stared. He didn't smile for almost a year; it was no longer in his vocabulary to do so.

But he had studied Indo's face closely. Perhaps it was the first time in years that someone had done this to him.

It brought home, as he looked at the slight, scarred, serious boy, just how damaged he was. How far he would have to come to achieve any level of normality. How much he had lost.

But he had taken the first step. Alone.

It was a long, hard road.

It started just minutes later when, still riding high on the back of his achievement, Indo had tried to guide the boy ahead of him into the waiting sedan speeder, and Luke had recoiled, twisting away in panic though he didn't yell out—he almost never did. He'd very nearly made it past the guards before one of them had grabbed him, lifting him just clear of the floor to stop his struggle—and Luke had bristled as he always did at any contact, thrashing wildly, arching his back to claw at the man's helmeted face.

"No, let him go," Indo yelled quickly, before this escalated. "Put him down!"

On his feet again, the boy instantly backpedalled further, eyes wide, recoiling until he hit the palace wall behind him, head jarring at the impact.

"Luke…Luke!" Indo held his arm out without touching, trying to stop the boy from sidestepping back into the room to his right, seeking to break his sudden overreaction. Surely he remembered speeders—what was he panicking about? "Luke, it's a speeder, that's all. It's just a speeder."

The boy's eyes remained wide, hands flattened to the wall behind him. Around them, other guests awaiting their provided transports were beginning to stare, or worse, trying hard not to, as they whispered between themselves.

"Luke, it's just a speeder." …and then Indo had remembered. Remembered just exactly how Luke had come to be here in the first place; the explosion that had left him alone.

They spent the next forty minutes watching dignitaries line up and step into speeders. Watching them take the short trip over to the Hall. Watching the speeders slow and their passengers step out safely. Watching the speeders turn about to make another trip…and another, and another.

"We have to get into this speeder," Indo said at last, when they were the final party standing on the rooftop platform. The boy pressed back, chin pulling in, lips a narrow line as the sedan waited, doors open, bobbing slightly in the wind. His new clothes had been pulled awry in the struggle, and Indo daren't try to straighten them.

"Luke, everything will be fine." He had no idea what to do. Slight as the boy was, Indo knew he could probably have one of the guards restrain him and bundle him into the speeder, but then what? Even if they managed the short trip, what state would the boy be in at the other end of it, where Indo was supposed to deliver him to the Emperor?

Luke stared resolutely at the ground before him, his perpetual frown deepening…and Indo had no idea of how to proceed. He wasn't the right person for this. The boy was too unstable, too disturbed. He sighed, shaking his head. "The Emperor is waiting."

Pale blue eyes lifted to Indo's—and he saw the way forward. "The Emperor ordered this, Luke—that you do this, now. Do you want to keep him waiting? Will you go against his command? You know he'll come back here, soon…"

The boy glanced down, one hand lifting to his lips as he gnawed compulsively at his thumbnail.

"What will you say to him, Luke, when he arrives here, incensed. What will you say, when he comes for you?"

Luke blinked slowly, still chewing at his nail…then glanced up towards the speeder. Indo didn't rush him, simply moving aside as he gestured silently for the guards to take another transport. Luke paused one more time, hands clenched to fists as he froze for long seconds at the speeder's door…then he climbed inside, still small enough to stand upright a he stared dead ahead, body tensed, back straight.

Indo had, of course, felt a brief flare of guilt at holding such threats over the head of one who had already faced so many—but it was for the boy's own good. The intimidation wasn't his, after all, nor had it been a lie; the Emperor would indeed have come looking for the boy with all haste if he had failed to arrive at the Hall. Better, surely, that Luke knew that. Better that he always knew the truth, when no one could protect him from it.

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And so it had gone. Indo had never hidden anything from Luke. Never made light of, or underplayed it. His position here was to facilitate the boy's progress, and he could hardly do that by lying to him.

It had been less than a year before the disappearances had begun. Though Luke's rooms were always locked at night, Indo would arrive early every morning and unlock the door to find him gone, with no explanation for months as to how, though he always returned in time for his first lesson, crumpled and dishevelled.

Then people had begun to contact him, asking diplomatically if he was aware that the boy was…outside of the palace.

Outside of the palace, where?

Outside, climbing the wall.

Luke had taken to scaling the external walls of the palace. Hundreds of stories up, on the upper ziggurat and the turrets. Accusations were levelled, and it had been forbidden in no uncertain terms. It became, in fact, the first thing that Luke had acquiesced and agreed with totally to Indo's face…and then gone off and done exactly the opposite, once alone.

The windows had been sealed shut. The boy had then taken to going further and further afield to get out. Indo had confronted him, and for the first time ever, Luke had argued back. The Emperor's name had been invoked, and Luke had hung his head, contrite—then done it again, within days. Unable to stop it, Indo had instituted the nightly regime of sleeping tablets, to ensure that he remained in his room. The comms lessened…for just four months. When the next comm came, Indo had thanked the man, then ignored it entirely. Luke returned for lessons, on time. Nothing was mentioned again—ever.

The beginning of longstanding habits.

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He'd never truly had a childhood, but at fourteen, Luke grew up.

The uniform was delivered unexpectedly just a month or so before Luke's fourteenth birthday, with no mention of its impending arrival by the Emperor. In a life already burdened with so much, Indo watched Luke struggle as lessons were rescheduled, continuing well into the night, and Luke began to experience first-hand the pressures of his future position, desperate as ever for the Emperor's approval. And still, occasionally, he would disappear. Of course, Indo knew that by now, Luke was leaving the palace—that his night time wanderings were taking him further and further afield.

He requisitioned members of the military to stand shift watches outside Luke's rooms in an attempt to curb his night-time comings and goings, but as before, found that despite this, he had no effective way to limit the incidents. Why he'd thought that guards might work, after the boy's frequent break-outs from the Throne Room in his youth, Indo didn't know.

But as ever Luke always came back, ready for lessons the following morning as if nothing had happened, so though Indo didn't like it, he tolerated these passive defiances with little more than ongoing reprimands.

Still, the boy was beginning to crack under Palpatine's constant pressure, his explosive outbursts more and more extreme despite everything Indo did, whole rooms destroyed in moments, anyone who tried to interfere in genuine danger…and just when Indo thought this whole house of cards would come tumbling down…everything calmed. Luke calmed.

More than that, over the space of just a few months, he became increasingly insular. He disappeared more, retreating to the roofs and outcroppings of the massive ziggurat, finding ever more hidden corners in the sprawling palace. He missed lessons.

More importantly, the abilities which the Emperor so valued the boy for, began to wane.

Then Luke had disappeared altogether.

For the first time, Indo had made a conscious choice not to inform the Emperor, aware of what he would do to the boy. Luke had been found late that evening in the lower levels of the main ziggurat, by which time Indo had been forced to quietly cancel lessons and claim the boy's illness. It hadn't been so very far from the truth. When he'd been found huddled in the corner of a storage bay in the lower ziggurat, Luke was barely able to stand—certainly unable to string a coherent sentence together. Fortunately, of the twenty men out looking for him, it had been one of Indo's staff who had not only found Luke, but been shrewd enough to take in his surroundings, and so had picked up the burnt-out stubs of the spice sticks.

Someone had supplied Luke with cardom, a base spice cut with nine or ten others, and seldom clean, Indo had since learned. He knew a great deal of all the variants, now.

After two days of being unable to keep even fluids down, it was when Luke had started coughing blood that Indo had risked summoning a medic. Luke was six days in the medicenter in all. And each day, Indo had stood in the shadows of the room, wondering whether the endless hours and effort he'd invested in training yet another young mind had been in vain. And occasionally, now and then, he'd thought of Dubrail…wondered if his own son had reached this point, and dealt with it in a very different way.

This particular cardom spice, it seemed, had been cut with toxic compounds to bulk it up for resale. At fourteen, Luke had needed dialysis and regenerative treatment for kidney damage. It had taken him over a month to recover.

Within two, he'd disappeared again, overnight. Search parties were sent out, first into the palace then, more worryingly, farther afield. There had been no way to hide it from the Emperor this time. It had been two days before they'd found him, curled up and near-comatose in a drug-den at the back of some squalid cantina in The Shades.

Back to the medicenter—a full week, this time. Then he'd had to answer to the Emperor for his actions, and was consequently returned there for a further two days, as the Emperor had clarified his opinion of such a flaw.

You could perhaps have put two such drug-related incidents in such a small time scale down to his inexperience…but at barely fourteen, Luke's unique experiences had left him sharp and world-wise beyond his years, a broken childhood endured among the best and the worst of humanity, with every strength and vice that such encompassed, enacted daily about him. He was hardly the innocent, and perfectly capable of looking after himself. No, it wasn't hard to work out just exactly why Luke had been so unlucky; he hadn't. After a lifetime of having his place in the greater scheme of things made crystal clear by the Emperor, the boy had little sense of, or interest in, his own self-preservation. He wasn't unlucky or inexperienced…the fact was, he simply didn't care.

And what did one do, under such circumstances? Again, Indo had no experience, and neither the intention nor the option of bringing in any kind of outside help. Yet it seemed the greater the pressure, the more the boy fell back on spice—and the pressure would only ever increase, here.

He could perhaps have returned to the Emperor to discuss his concerns. But considering Palpatine's previous response had been severe enough to put Luke in the medicenter, Indo had been reluctant to involve him again, particularly since Luke would know that it had been he who had done it.

On the other hand, if the threat of further reprimands hadn't stopped Luke, then Indo knew that nothing he did would.

Better then, surely, to deal with the practicalities of the problem, whilst maintaining his disapproval, as Indo had with earlier habits. To try to limit the obvious risks whilst turning a blind eye to the actual problem itself, in an effort to ensure that his charge came to no further harm. The boy had grown out of his night-time climbs across the outer walls of the palace, eventually. He would grow out of this too, given time—and Indo would still be here, the dependable constant.

For a while, this mix of tacit tolerance and public disapproval had worked—it still worked now, to a degree—and in the process, it had fostered that all-important interdependence which meant that he would stay with the boy, as Luke rose through the ranks. Commander already, and set to join the Emperor's elite—where would he be in five years' time? Indo knew of course, that Hands severed all contacts with their past…but he didn't believe the boy would remain such for long; he had greater plans for Luke—had set his aims and his eyes on the one other post which required the unique skills that Luke embodied.

The Emperor probably knew to some degree that Indo coveted Lord Vader's position for his charge; certainly he must know that Indo withheld certain facts in working towards this goal, but likely allowed it because Indo's ambition for Luke served his own purposes. All the boy's flaws—his brittle volatility, his hidden vulnerabilities, his obsessive nature—all these things, Indo had taught him to control—and that had bought Indo a certain immunity. A certain leeway, provided that his goals and the Emperor's were the same. Which they so clearly were. Though he would never be so vulgar as to say it aloud, Indo knew that he was training Lord Vader's replacement.

And he would do just that—would give his Emperor a pre-eminent second-in-command, superior in every way; loyalty, obedience, ability…what were a few petty transgressions or compromises along the way, compared to that?

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Nearing bootfalls marked Solo's return to the room, and Indo watched him as he slowed to a halt, tucking the comlink out of sight as he waited for the Emperor to leave… The man radiated a concern that Indo simply did not feel, at the Emperor's involvement in Luke's life. Disapproved of so many of the measures that had been put in place to help the boy to deal with that fact.

For a second Indo faltered, questioning why he felt no such anxiety, rare doubts whispering. Would Indo have pushed his own son this far? As much of Dubrail's life as he'd been prepared to sacrifice to see him excel, would it have been equal to this? Would he have turned away and allowed, even assisted so much, in his pursuit of private ambitions?

Aware of Indo's scrutiny, Solo turned to stare stonily…and Indo straightened, lifting his chin, his momentary doubts quickly quashed beneath the knowledge of all that he'd achieved.

Solo was wrong, wallowing in a mire of his own petty, provincial values.

Yes, the Emperor had trained the boy to excel in a way that no others could, but it was Indo who had grounded him, who had given him the stability and the means to endure, and he wouldn't be made to feel ashamed of that by some petty rank and file nobody.

He'd done what he'd had to, to achieve so much—and he would continue to do so, to maintain it. He turned and walked from the room, leaving Solo to his self-righteous vigil. Let him stand and wait; Indo had no need to. Long-established reliance ensured that as Luke went from strength to strength, he would always carry Indo with him.

Despite all of Solo's attempts to force himself into Luke's life, because of Indo's own actions and the hard choices he'd made, he had not just older, but far, far stronger ties.

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To be continued…..

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	22. Chapter 22

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**CHAPTER 22**

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It was late in the evening, and Ashtor started his shift as he always did, with a brief walk-around for his first check of the evening, setting off from the first of two staff rooms just inside the locked entrance doors, then past Indo's office, its door open to allow the Viscount, who was working late tonight, to see any and all who passed down the corridor to the apartment's only exit.

He turned left into the smaller hallway that led to the library, but the light was off and the room empty, its wide table cluttered with datapads and reference chips. Turning about, Ashtor walked through the study opposite and the morning room. Both were empty, but then neither were ever used, their hard-edged furnishings stark and uninviting.

Back in the main corridor he turned right and into the esplanade, walking its length through cool, empty rooms laid out with carefully arranged antiques whose harsh, austere ascetics lent themselves to straight backs and self-discipline. They'd all been chosen and laid out by Indo, of course, and were very much the palace style, but despite their value, for once Ashtor didn't covet ownership.

At the mercury-glass division which marked Antilles' private rooms, he paused…but he'd seen the youth nowhere else, so he walked forward, and the doors snicked open and slid back. Into the first room, empty save for one upright chair, placed before one of the newer canvases… The second room, devoid of furnishings entirely but cluttered with more damn canvases—Antilles ran his own private gallery back here. Ashtor had wondered more than once whether one or two of the smaller canvases would be missed.

He stopped to knock against the doorframe of the third and final room, braced to hear Antilles give his usual curt dismissal without ever opening the door…nothing. He tried again, and again waited without an answer, before finally brushing his hand to the door release plate.

He didn't enter as it opened; there was no need. The room, like its predecessors, was dark and empty. Ashtor frowned; no one had gone past him, and Indo had been there all evening. He wasn't particularly surprised that Antilles had slunk off yet again, just annoyed, as he headed back for Viscount Indo's office, aware he'd get it in the neck; Indo wasn't in the best of moods, of late.

The Viscount was, as anticipated, far from pleased. The first thing he'd done, interestingly, was to comm the Corellian's quarters…with no response. Ashtor waited, taking the rap with his head down, until the Viscount had left the apartment. Then he walked quickly back into the morning room to pull out his own comlink.

He had a standing order from the man whom he truly answered to—the man who'd promised to take Ashtor into his own staff as a Commander, when Antilles was gone from the palace—to report any and all of Antilles' comings and goings as they happened for the next few days. Something was clearly about to hit, here. Just a few days ago, when Ashtor had passed on the scrap of spice paper he'd found in the library with the scribbled image of an unknown man on it, Lord Vader had actually visibly reacted, holding the pale blue scrap of paper between gloved fingers for long seconds before he closed his hand into a fist, crushing the paper in the process… Then in the early hours of this morning, the Emperor himself had arrived at Antilles' apartment, an unheard-of event!

Of course, Antilles' near-nightly disappearances were far from unusual, but the order Ashtor had received from Lord Vader was to report any and all happenings, and if nothing else, the Viscount's reaction tonight to something as commonplace as Antilles' disappearance, spurred Ashtor to act now.

The comlink connected with a brief _tack_, and Vader's voice was as curt as ever. "Report."

"Antilles has left his apartment, M'Lord."

"When?"

"Probably just minutes ago. He was here when I arrived, but I just did a brief walk-round, and he's gone. Viscount Indo's gone to Security, to try to track him down."

The line fell to silence, and Ashtor resisted the urge to ask whether his superior was still there, aware of Lord Vader's short temper. Still, those who served him well moved through the ranks quickly—certainly more so than Indo's recruits, who gained nothing more than a year or two's service before they were released, and Ashtor's ambition went further than that.

"Stay where you are, and report immediately if you hear more."

"Yes, my Lord."

He told Ashtor nothing, of course…but from the tone of Lord Vader's voice, Ashtor knew that some bigger action had just been triggered…and that Antilles was at the center of it.

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Luke paused to look behind him as a sliver of a shiver brushed his spine. He glanced up at the narrow ribbon of darkening sky high above the crowded buildings of the Shades, but they were so far down into the depths that the palace itself was no longer visible, all of Coruscant's bright lights and renowned luxury reduced to a faint glow at the edges of the deep, man-made crevasse of endless buildings. He glanced about, unable to shrug the distant feeling that someone was out there, trying to track him in that instant…but he wasn't being followed, and nothing specific caught his eye or his searching senses, so he turned back and resumed walking.

Beside him, Han took a second longer to look the street up and down with the easy confidence of a trained soldier, but seeing nothing amiss he continued on, taking a subtle step closer to Luke. It had become…comfortable to have Han come with him. He'd never really had anyone to watch his back before. Indo had long maintained a military presence in his apartment at the palace, and they even accompanied Luke out on various tasks from time to time…but they were generally far more likely to be sent out to look _for_ him rather than accompany him anywhere. And he would never have asked anyway, firstly because he hadn't trusted any of them sufficiently, and secondly because they were generally the kind of career-oriented soldiers who saw the military as a convenient stepping stone on the ladder, like Gorn, rather than the type who could be counted on if things got out of hand—which seemed to happen regularly, for some reason, in Luke's experience.

Han was…what? Reassuring, perhaps. He could be relied on in a tight corner. He wasn't afraid to wade in there, and by and large, it was to Luke's defense. It was something new to Luke, this steadfast integrity. Something valuable. And also, occasionally, something trying.

"So, I have a question." He was trying so hard to sound casual, Luke knew, radiating a forced, nonchalant air. "I was wondering where we left the whole Leia…thing."

The temptation to string him along was incredible…but somehow Luke didn't think Han would see the funny side. "Fine, I give you my word, okay? I'll let Leia walk free—this time. But that's it. I can't do this any more, and she can't come here again. If she does, next time we meet…the slate's clean."

Han still stared, mouth a thin line, but Luke was adamant. "Let's just remember the truth here: Kenobi came after me—he started this. He didn't go after Vader or the Emperor, both of whom were trained Sith…he came after an eleven-year-old. A soft target. I don't know what face he projects for Leia Skywalker, but those are the facts; he brought a commando team and a second Jedi, and came to kill his own son, in the dead of night. Remember that."

"None of which has anything to do with Leia."

"You're right—which is why I'll let her walk free."

"And how do you think she'll feel? You once said to me that Leia would be absolutely loyal to Kenobi, like you're loyal to Palpatine. What would you feel, if you found out that you'd unknowingly led Palpatine's killer right to him—given him that opportunity?"

Luke glanced away, lifting his hand to gnaw at his thumbnail as he walked. "No one could kill Palpatine."

"She probably feels the same way about Kenobi."

"Well then, she's wrong."

"You can't do this to her."

"She'll get over it."

"No, she won't. You want to know what'll happen? I'll tell you." Han stopped, forcing Luke to do the same as he continued with absolute surety. "She'll take you to Kenobi because for some unknown reason, she trusts you. If you do go against him you'll probably kill him, I'll give you that—"

"Oh, just probably? Thanks."

"But let me tell you, once she realizes that you used her, she won't forget. She won't forgive…and she _will _come after you—you know damn well she will."

"You think that wasn't going to happen anyway? What do you think he's training her for?"

"She hasn't once done anything against you."

"Which means nothing. I haven't done anything against her…yet."

"Don't do it, not like this. He's like a father to her."

"Well then, isn't she the lucky one…" Luke bit out as he turned to walk on. "Because he never was to me."

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They were actually at the door to the Bad Break cantina when Luke's comlink buzzed for attention. Halting, he pulled it out.

"Yes?"

"Are you at the cantina?" It was Leia's voice.

"Yes," Luke said, knowing in that moment: "But you're not inside."

"You need to go two blocks east."

"Are you gonna make me wander round all night?"

"Two blocks east."

The comm cut and Luke cursed, turning about—and paused…

"What?" Han stared at him.

"…Nothing," Luke said distractedly, jumping at shadows. "Nothing's there."

"I don't think you're gonna do it," Han said, as they started off again.

"Is that a fact?"

"Yeah. Even now, with that look on your face, that you're thinking, 'I'm gonna do it anyway, just to prove him wrong', I still don't think you're gonna do it. You're smarter than that."

Luke turned to deliver a sideways dirty look, but wouldn't take the bait, so Han continued anyway. "You're smarter than that because you know the difference between what old yellow eyes keeps on telling you is okay, and what's actually okay—what you should and shouldn't do. And I know that you're angry and you got somethin' to say—hell knows, I would have, too—but I'm pretty damn sure you can say it without a lightsaber in your hand."

"We're here," Luke said by way of reply.

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Three steps in front of Han, Luke could separate out Leia's presence easily at this distance, though she was still shielding. He blinked at that, considering; how could he tune into her so well—a Jedi, wary and shielding? It had taken a concerted effort to find Kenobi…how could he pick her half-hidden sense out of the background clutter of a crowded area like the Shades?

She stepped out of the shadows alone, no Wookiee backup this time.

"Do you still want to see him?" She didn't say a name, though everyone knew who she meant.

Luke nodded without speaking, his heart hammering against his chest; this was it—it was happening. He was going to stand in front of the father who had abandoned him and then tried to kill him, and despite years of dreaming of doing so before now, he was actually going to do it at an age where he knew damn well that he was more than capable of guaranteeing the outcome he wanted.

"_I don't think you're gonna do it… You're smarter than that."_

Luke ground his jaw, digging in mentally. Not against Han's words, but against his imminent disappointment when Luke did, because he was long past any kind of deliberating on whether or not to act. He deserved this—more importantly, Bail and Breha Organa did. They had trusted Kenobi…they _deserved_ revenge. Retribution.

"_You know the difference between what old yellow eyes keeps on telling you is okay, and what's actually okay—what you should and shouldn't do."_

Luke shook his head, focusing on Leia. "…What?"

"I said, we're going to the Raparee Cantina. When I've checked—when I think it's safe—I'll contact him and…"

"I have a suggestion. You can refuse, if you want." He said it on impulse, mind searching for excuses to skip past Solo's words.

"Go on?"

"There's a storage depot owned by a company named Mykos Shipping."

Leia narrowed her eyes. "Mykos Shipping is a Black Sun cover operation."

"Yes, it's a front for smuggling. Mykos Shipping owns the storage facility where they hold inbound contraband."

"How do you know that?"

"Because Palpatine does. He allows it to remain in exchange for certain benefits."

"Like what?"

Luke continued without even acknowledging the question. "Because of that, the local law enforcement are under orders not to patrol there or interfere…which also means that it's about as far away from them as you can get, this close to the palace." It was a logical suggestion…though that wasn't why he'd named it now.

"How do you know about Black Sun's dealings?"

"You think Xizor doesn't answer to the Emperor, like everyone else?"

Her silent suspicion rolled out into the Force unchecked, but Luke only shrugged. "You don't have to take the suggestion." _Take it—ask where it is._

"… Where's the storage depot?"

"It's on the Intos installation, which is close by here." Luke held his voice level, senses stretched to their limit to read her. "I thought you'd know it…it's a skyhook."

Not a flicker of her lashes gave the game away visibly, but her sense in the Force flared briefly in shock at his mention of the word skyhook—and Luke had all he'd wanted.

She'd been there during Operation Skyhook, at Toprawa—and probably Kenobi with her. That was why the fleet had struggled to… He paused, another thought occurring; was that why Vader hadn't fired on the Rebel corvette in those last moments—had he sensed Kenobi onboard, and wanted a more personal defeat? He stored the information away, knowing its value, in implicating Vader one more time for his failure to retrieve the plans which had led to the Death Star's destruction. Then he brought his mind back to the moment, aware that today would demand his total attention.

Leia still stared, wary, but Luke no longer cared whether she took the suggestion or not; he'd gained all he'd wanted from the skyhook's mention. He let that disinterest out for her to sense, and she came to a decision. "I'll comm Master Kenobi. How far is it from here?"

"Not far. South of here, by airspeeder."

"How exactly are we going to get in, if Xizor's lackeys are there?"

"It's a smugglers' run—there are ways to get all over it without using obvious corridors. There are also three fully-automated landing bays. I have the shield door harmonics for two of them."

"Get around, don't you?"

He let a brief smile touch his lips. "You have no idea."

"Do you have an airspeeder near?"

"No, but there's a public land and store bay a few levels up. It'll take me about a minute to break into something we like the look of."

"That long? I'm disappointed." She lifted an eyebrow, and there was something in her expression that hinted at recognition of a peer, her sense almost mischievous. "I can half that."

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They slowed as a group as they reached the base-level deep-storage bay on the Intos skyhook, where Kenobi had already acknowledged to Leia that he would wait. He hadn't asked for any codes to get into the skyhook, and Luke hadn't offered any, but judging from his acknowledgement a short time ago, he didn't seem to have had any problems.

Luke stopped before the wide sliding doors, aware that his chest was tightening and his breaths coming shorter, not helped by the anxious unease that had wound gradually tighter in Han as they'd gotten closer, or the tightly battened-down uncertainty in Leia Skywalker, for bringing him here at all.

Not a trace of a presence emanated from beyond those doors. He could have opened himself and stretched out into the Force, and probably picked something up, Luke knew, as he had in the early hours this morning, but he felt somehow…reluctant. Uneasy at exposing his presence here, though he couldn't say why. Kenobi, probably—what else could it be? Luke frowned, finding his resolve in his annoyance at his own reticence. He'd come here with something to say. What Kenobi felt about it one way or the other was immaterial.

He'd also come to do something…

He glanced again to Han, close by, and Han took a slow, deep breath, eyes on Luke, his expression telling that he'd said all that he wanted to on this—it was up to Luke now.

Straightening, Luke walked forward and pressed the door release. It scraped back partway on old runners, stopping not much wider than Luke's shoulders, the bay beyond illuminated only by dim security lights which filtered down from the high ceiling to form pale pools by the time they reached the scuffed and crate-covered floor.

But Luke had walked into Palpatine's presence, knowing he was at fault and that retribution would be swiftly and mercilessly exacted, in far more ominous chambers than this. Squaring his shoulders, he brought his hand briefly beneath his jacket to the small of his back, where he wore his lightsaber fastened horizontally to the clip on his belt, concealed from view. Then he set forward, pressing the doors to close behind him.

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Han watched the kid from the far side of the wide corridor which had led them to the deep storage bays. Watched him square his shoulders and straighten before he stepped inside.

Briefly, Luke's hand went to the small of his back, where Han knew that the kid had taken to carrying his lightsaber, if the lines of his clothes could conceal it. Han's lip twitched briefly in unease, though he'd known that Luke would bring it.

Beside him Leia Skywalker moved slightly, still staring at the spot where the door had closed, as if she could see beyond. "Does Luke always wear a lightsaber?"

Han coughed, scowling. "He's started to, yeah. He's training to be a Hand." It was hard to keep the censure out of his own voice, let alone his thoughts. Leia turned immediately, and Han tried to shrug it away. "You know them, right? They're Force-sensitive—all of them, I think."

"All?"

"Don't ask," Han said, resigned. "I have no idea who or how many they are."

"But Luke does?"

"Kid knows everything—all the dealings that go on."

Leia followed his eyes back to that closed door, and Han turned to settle on the wide trunk pipe that was bolted to the wall at sitting-height, prepared to wait this out—unless he heard the thrum of a lightsaber of course, in which case, he was prepared to go hurtling in there and try to hold the kid back. He looked back to the doors, rubbing his chin as he listened hard…nothing yet. Leia glanced to him briefly, then back to the door, as vigilant as Han was, if for entirely different reasons.

"So…" Han groped for something to say. "No Wookiee today, huh?"

"He's waiting at the ship. You never know when you might need a pilot to do a fast pick-up."

Han opened his mouth to speak, and Leia brought her head round quickly. "Don't say anything."

"Me?" He tried a mock-innocent look, and it brought a smile to her face, despite the gravity of the situation.

"You really are just a pilot who ended up in the wrong place, aren't you?"

"Hey, I never said I was _just_ a pilot. As it happens, I'm a _great_ pilot."

"Is that a fact?"

"Carida trained," Han said proudly, to illustrate his point—then broke off, realizing who he was speaking to.

"You don't have to apologize. There's nothing wrong with having made a bad decision when you were young." Leia paused, those expressive brown eyes studying him. "It only becomes a mistake if you know the truth, but still don't act on it."

"Yeah, well…real life's just more complicated than that," Han murmured, looking down.

Leia glanced again to the closed bay door, then stepped closer to sit beside him on the trunk pipe. "I know."

"And speakin' of acting on things…" He reached out to rest his hand on hers, where it leaned on the dusty pipe, using his thumb to rub against the inside of hers; that callous again. Han lifted her hand to look at it and, eyes still on that closed door, she let him with little resistance.

"You know, Luke has a callous on exactly the same place on his hand."

She glanced down, and frowned. "Which hand?"

"Uh…left."

"Left-handed, then." There was something in her tone that hinted at someone tucking away relevant information…then she shrugged. "It's from lightsaber practice. You take the weight of the hilt against your thumb there when you rotate it through complicated moves, and you tend to do that with your dominant hand."

Han glanced down, feeling once again that he had somehow ended up in some strange altered reality, where all that was casual and everyday had changed completely. She slipped her hand from his to rest it on his arm.

"You look after him, don't you?"

"Somebody's got to."

"Do you think… Luke, he's spoken with me, he's helped me, he's here now… do you think he'd turn away from the Empire?"

"I dunno, it'd be hard to move him on that."

"Why?"

"Kid's grown up with the Emperor. The old man's been in his head too long—not even Kenobi'll change that." Han remained silent about the greater issue; that if Kenobi thought he could start playing the father card it was too little too late, and the kid would tell him that in no uncertain terms. But if Luke actually came through for Han and did that right thing in there—actually gave Kenobi a chance to explain himself and maybe even sort this out—then it was for Luke and Kenobi to choose when to tell others. That was big stuff—the kind you didn't mess with, or just blurt out without permission.

As to Luke's loyalties…Han felt on more solid ground there. "Old yellow eyes is a great believer in sewing the seeds early. And Kenobi helped, when he came to the palace to try to assassinate the kid. He can't just act like that didn't happen."

"Obi-Wan did what?" Leia asked, jolting.

"The assassination attempt," Han repeated. "When Luke was eleven."

"What! No, that was when Master Kenobi first realized that Luke was still alive! Before that, no one had seen him since the murder of the Organas, when he was seven. Everyone assumed that he'd died with his parents, as the official statement said. When they realized that he was alive, Obi-Wan and Master Yoda tried to get him out—to rescue him. But it…it went bad, and Master Yoda gave his life trying to gain Obi-Wan the opportunity to get Luke out." She frowned, outrage and growing alarm competing in her voice. "Is that what they told Luke—that Obi-Wan and Master Yoda were trying to _kill_ him?"

"That sly-assed son of a nek," Han growled, shaking his head.

Leia's head turned to the closed door. "So Luke thinks he's gone in there to...to face the man who tried to kill him?"

"That ain't the half of it."

Leia stared…and suddenly those big brown eyes widened and she was rising, already a swift step towards the door.

Han made a grasp at her wrist to stop her. "Wait! Let them sort it out."

"Are you insane? Han, I picked it up from your thoughts…you think—"

"I don't. I don't think he'll kill him. Okay, I think he came here _intending_ to kill him." Han shook his head, more sure now than ever. "But he won't do it. He won't. What, d'you think I'd just let him walk in there to kill someone?"

Leia twisted her wrist free as Han pushed on. "Leia, you gotta let him work through this. This has been part of his life for so long…but he can get through it. He can."

"And risk Master Kenobi's life?"

"C'mon, have a little faith."

"In a Sith?"

Han's voice softened. "How about in me?" he tried somberly. "He won't do it. I know him…and he won't do it. Or how about in your own Master? Even if Kenobi doesn't know about the assassination thing, he knows the rest. Let 'em work it out—that's what they both came here for, isn't it?"

She settled just slightly at that, though her eyes stayed on the closed door. And maybe, somewhere in the back of his head, Han knew that he too was listening, waiting to hear the bass thrum of a lightsaber igniting.

.

.

.

.

.

Luke had halted three paces into the room, to stare at the man who had abandoned him, newborn, to Bail and Breha Organa, to return to his precious war. Had he known? Surely he'd known that it would be their deaths when the Emperor found out that they were harboring the illegitimate son of a Jedi?

And now he was standing here. Just standing, a slight smile on his face and in his eyes—as if he was blameless; guiltless. As if he didn't realize that in doing so, he'd ripped Luke's life apart and damned him to drown in the Darkness which had turned him inside out and wrung him dry. He'd had no idea—no idea whether Luke would survive. Worse, when Luke had, he'd come searching for the son he'd walked away from. Come searching to end what gruelling existence Luke had eked out beneath his Master's harsh and constant demands. A swell of fury rose up inside Luke, burning his gut and tightening his throat as Kenobi walked forward. Yet he still smiled—he actually smiled at Luke, his voice warm and amicable, even as it held an edge of wary caution.

"Luke. You're a long way from the palace, young man."

He was old. Older than Luke had expected up close, deep lines about his eyes, with a short, grey beard and fine hair, almost white with age. He held out his hand in greeting, and Luke looked coolly down to it, then back to Kenobi.

"Actually, I think it's you who's a little too close to it. You should be more careful." He didn't even try to disguise the threat in his tone, but Kenobi only held that ambiguous smile.

"I probably should. But I very much hoped that the gains would outweigh the risks."

"This time around," Luke said dryly. "Come to finish what you started when I was eleven?"

"I don't know," Kenobi admitted frankly. "I perhaps hoped so."

"You'll find me less of a soft target this time. I don't need Vader or Palpatine's help—I can defend myself."

The old man's pale eyebrows pulled together to twitch into a soft frown, though his voice remained cordial in that controlled manner. "Defend yourself?"

Luke felt a flare of outrage that he was even trying to claim—what? Ignorance of a raid that he himself had led? "I know you led the insurgency force that tried to kill me, when I was just eleven."

"Kill you?" The shock that rippled out through the Force seemed genuine, laced with indignation. "Luke, we were trying to extract you. We were trying to get you away from the Emperor and to safety."

"Of course you were."

"Why would we try to do anything else?"

"Because I was Sith."

Kenobi tilted his head, voice gently reproving. "You were a child."

"I'd already killed on command, you knew that. I know when the information went out."

"All the more reason to get you safely away."

"When I was eleven," Luke grated acerbically. "A little late, wasn't it?"

.

.

Obi-Wan stared, hearing the undisguised antagonism in those biting words… Yet the young man before him showed nothing of himself in the Force, bound up so tightly that his presence was not merely unreadable but completely undetectable, even at this close proximity. Standing just steps away, Obi-Wan not only had no sense of him, but no sense of any distortion or omission within the Force, just as Leia had warned, his cool, calculating control far more chilling than any threat spoken aloud. He was perfectly hidden…as only a Sith could hide.

Uncertain how to continue—how to talk the youth down and gain something of value from this, even if it was only understanding—Obi-Wan settled back to perch onto the edge of one of the many packing cases in the bay, all claiming to contain laboratory supplies. He crossed his ankles as his cloak settled about him, consciously taking a non-aggressive stance and forcing his muscles to relax as he nodded to the low crate close to Luke. "Take a seat."

It wasn't as arbitrary as it seemed; if the youth was sitting, then Obi-Wan would at least have a moment's warning if he chose to attack, a course which was so clearly twitching at the edge of his thoughts.

The boy raised his chin. "I'll stand."

"Very well." Obi-Wan tried another smile, which bounced off those unyielding shields, and again left him questioning his own sanity for coming here. But he'd had to know. Aware now that Vader had no knowledge of or hold on his son, Obi-Wan had to find out whether Luke could yet be salvaged. For so long he'd believed not. Even now he still held the flicker of hope in check, a large part of him fearing and preparing for the worst…

For so long, he'd told Leia nothing of her twin's existence, aware that her natural compassion could so easily be twisted by her brother, and used as a weapon against her. But the realization of Vader's ignorance had changed everything, because the question had become what, if anything, the boy whom Palpatine had stolen away knew of his own heritage... and without that deeper blood connection, how great was Palpatine's hold on him?

But that still had to come first; the danger that Luke represented, particularly to Leia. Which meant that once again, after years of certainty, it had come to Obi-Wan to make that decision as to what truths, if any, could or should be revealed. "Leia told me that you wanted to speak with me?"

"Leia Skywalker."

"Yes."

"Your padawan."

"Yes."

The youth's face and his stance changed not a whit, but everything about him had moved from agitated to aggressive…and Obi-Wan had no idea as to why. Nor why there was such venom in his next words.

"You're lucky I haven't ripped her apart already."

Obi-Wan straightened just slightly. "I'll tolerate no threats to her, Luke."

"You think you could stop me?"

Not wanting to be drawn into counter-threats, Obi-Wan held silent. Luke too remained still, so that for long moments they were left to a wordless test of brinksmanship…until again Obi-Wan sought to dispel it, beginning to wonder why the boy had brought him here. If he'd wanted to kill him, Obi-Wan was beginning to realize that the youth would most definitely have drawn his saber by now…yet despite his obvious animosity, he hadn't.

Or was it simply that he had something he wanted to say, before he did? "You called me here, Luke…you told Leia that you had questions that only I could answer. Questions about the Force, perhaps?"

"For a Jedi?" Luke was instantly dismissive—but then that was what he would have been taught, Obi-Wan reminded himself. "I already use it more completely than you ever could."

"You use it more callously, perhaps," Obi-Wan said without admonishment.

"It's a tool to be used, like the lightsaber at my belt."

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to look down, knowing that he'd seen none as the young man had entered…yet Luke clearly wanted Obi-Wan to know that he carried one. He held his nerve, and smiled. "The Force is not something to be used indiscriminately or without consideration—save for knowledge and defense."

"Please—you dabble and paddle like you're afraid of it."

"I respect its power."

"And look where it got you—all your kind. Destroyed en-masse by a single man, who wasn't afraid to channel it. By a Sith."

"All that it gives you, the Darkness takes from you in return…" Obi-Wan paused a fraction, looking to gain knowledge by default. "Look at your Master."

"He's Emperor."

Then it was Palpatine and not Vader, who had supervised the boy's training. "He's an empty shell, twisted and consumed by greed and paranoia."

"And you're a toothless old man, clinging to past glory."

Obi-Wan hesitated at the venom in the boy's voice, in defense of his Master. "Listen to your words, Luke, filled with anger and bitterness."

The youth lifted his chin, unrepentant. "Well, I've had a lot of practice, thanks to you."

"Yes, I failed you, I know that. But it was by necessity, not by choice."

"Really? Or was it simple convenience? Jedi don't form attachments and they don't have children. I was an embarrassment that you couldn't get rid of quickly enough, isn't that the truth?"

Obi-Wan stared, hit by the unanticipated broadside of the boy's knowledge. After Vader's ignorance, he had hoped… "You know your heritage?"

"Palpatine told me. Did you think he wouldn't tell me just how easily you walked away?"

"Nobody walked away, Luke. You were taken from us when Bail and Breha died. It—"

"Because of you!" Luke stepped forward, fury igniting as he bit out the words. "They died because you left me there, with them!"

"No, it was Palpatine who—"

"No! You're just as responsible. You didn't give a damn what happened to them—or me! Did you hand me over to them in the first place—was it you who did it?" There was raw accusation in his voice. "You signed their death warrants, it could only ever have been a matter of time."

"I didn't know that. I thought their power and position would protect you, and Bail and Breha were eager to—"

"You knew the risks, you knew it put them in danger!"

"I did know…and so did they. But children rarely have any traceable connection with the Force until they are taught such, Luke. When we handed you over, you were just as any other baby. I travelled to Alderaan yearly to check on you, though you were probably too young to remember. I had been there just five months earlier."

.

.

.

Luke stared, taken aback; facts…after years in a desert of ignorance, this mild, dangerous old man was simply giving them away, their truth ringing a pure note through the Force. "You were there?"

"I came every year…don't you remember? You pulled my beard that year because you thought it was false. Bail turned crimson." Kenobi smiled slightly, the memory warming his sense. "I believe that's the one and only time I ever saw the Viceroy lost for words."

Luke stared, unprepared for this. The mundaneness of it, the smallness, the…solace of a moment from his childhood recounted openly for the first time, a glimpse into a past he'd been ordered to dismiss and forget…and it was hard to hold onto his anger. His shoulders dropped just a fraction, voice loosing its edge as he sought the answers to questions that had plagued him since childhood, but which he'd long-since learned better than to dare ask. "Then what happened—why did Palpatine realize?"

.

.

.

As those sharp eyes came back to him, Obi-Wan felt a burning power scorch the mental shields he held in place, though the boy clearly considered this little more than the Force equivalent of a searching stare.

"I don't know, Luke, I truly don't." Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. "You'd had no training, no knowledge of how to summon the Force, and therefore there should have been no way for Palpatine to have detected you at such an early age. I'm sorry…I'm so sorry."

He held against the searching power of that penetrating stare, putting a lifetime of experience and ability into maintaining dense shields…

"It was me, wasn't it?" There was something in the boy's voice—something horrified and all too knowing, and Obi-Wan felt the iron reserve that he'd held as a shield against the boy softening.

"I truly don't know, Luke. There's nothing to be gained in trying to—"

"It was me. I did something which made Palpatine aware—I must have."

"No. You were a child. Even if you did somehow…"

"The pearl!"

The flare of appalled realization which razed out from the youth made Obi-Wan flinch.

Luke continued, gaze skipping across the floor as he recalled distant memories. "My mother said she'd lost a pearl hairpin. I told her I'd find it. I could find things sometimes, even then, just by walking a room and concentrating. Not looking, just closing my eyes and concentrating on the object. I told her I'd look—I promised her I'd find it."

He looked again to Obi-Wan, eyes and sense horror-struck, the impenetrable shields he'd held in place cracking, forgotten beneath greater concerns. "I walked the rooms that day when they were gone, looking for the pearl…" He stumbled backwards a step, sitting heavily down as the back of his legs hit the edge of a packing crate, words whispered within a breathless gasp. "I did it…when I looked for the pearl, I did it…"

The last vestiges of determination Obi-Wan had held to remain coolly detached, began to fracture at the despair in the boy's voice—and he didn't even try to steel against it. Because this was what he'd come here desperately hoping to find, even whilst bracing for the all too likely reality that he wouldn't. This…this was compassion. This was humanity. This was regret…and as all those brooding, implacable shields crumbled, _this_ was what lay at the core of him…and it was not Darkness. It was the boy who lay, curled and repressed, at the very heart of the creature Palpatine had built about it. It was the five-year-old child who'd run in circles about Obi-Wan's legs until he was too dizzy to stand, laughing as he'd crumpled to the ground. It was the baby Obi-Wan had held in his arms, innocence itself.

Luke shook his head slowly, still caught up within that moment, voice a cracked whisper. "I was using the Force, to look for the pearl hairpin. I didn't know that's what it was, or how to control it, but I was somehow tuning into the Force, without knowing it…and Palpatine sensed that—of course he did! I…" Luke lifted his head, blue eyes bright. "I did it—I killed them. I set it all in motion… I'm responsible."

At that appalled, grief-stricken certainty, Obi-Wan realized just how willing the boy was to take all blame. "Luke, this isn't your fault. None of this is your fault."

"I did it."

"No. Palpatine acted, not you. You did nothing wrong. This is what he does—what he's always done. He sees something that he wants, be it the power to rule, or the destiny of a child, and he takes it. He removes any and all obstacles in his path—destabilizes, disassembles or destroys them without compunction—and then takes what he desires. Bail and Breha Organa were nothing to him, Luke. He's killed thousands…"

"Stop!" The youth rose, taking two stumbling steps to the side to back up further, hand out before him. "Just stop!"

"Luke, listen to me—"

"No. I didn't come here to listen to you spout propaganda."

"And why did you come?"

"To..." His voice quietened again. "To ask you why. Why did you leave me with them—why did you leave me at all?"

He was trying so hard to hold onto his previous anger, Obi-Wan could see. To stir it again, for his own protection. But the revelation of just why he'd been discovered had shaken his very foundations, so his voice, when he next spoke, was more bewilderment than accusation. "Was I worth so little to you?"

Obi-Wan stepped forward, drawn in, easily finding compassion for the youth who should be his sworn enemy. "Don't ever think that. What we did…we believed it was for your own safety. Master Yoda and I were prime targets and the Rebellion did not exist. We did it to protect you."

"I should have…" The youth's head dropped, words quiet, almost an appeal. "I should have been with my father."

"That's the last place you should have been, Luke. Surely you know that."

His head snapped up. "Why, because I'm Sith? Because I was always destined to be? That's what my Master says. Is that why you abandoned me and taught her?"

"No," Obi-Wan said gently. "No, Luke. We all have the same potential for good and evil—even your father."

The boy frowned, a shadow of confusion crossing has face. "…What?"

"He didn't abandon you, Luke, he believed you dead. We allowed that misconception, to protect you from him."

The boy stared…for the longest time, he simply stared. Obi-Wan could sense his mind racing as he fought to pull sense from what had been said. "What are…are you saying that you didn't know I'd been born? You said you gave me to Bail Organa yourself—you just said that!"

"Me?" For a moment Obi-Wan too struggled…and then realization bloomed, making him step forward. "Luke…Luke, who is your father—what did Palpatine tell you?"

The youth almost spoke then hesitated, bracing himself, aware that something was very wrong. "Y…you're my father—I already know that. That's how…that's why I was with you, when you handed me over to Bail Organa."

Obi-Wan's hand came to his mouth, such was his shock. What had Palpatine been doing, to… stunned thoughts caught up with themselves, and he realized what a perfect lie it was. How completely it would have turned a young child against those he hoped to have it one day destroy. What control it would have given him, of a boy believing himself forsaken and dismissed by his own father. What seeds of hatred and hostility it would have sown.

All of Luke's resentment, all of his indignation and antagonism, was instantly explained. His driving desire to meet Obi-Wan—to speak to him face to face. His all too obvious antipathy when he finally did. What must he have thought, coming here? What must Obi-Wan have seemed, in his casual detachment? Without thinking, he reached out to take the youth's arm—but something stopped him even at this; some tamped down spark which emanated from Luke in reaction, told in the barest twitch backwards, though it flared in the Force. This boy—this poor, misguided, dangerous youth—how completely and coldly he'd been lied to and used. What a perfect weapon it had made him.

"No…no, Luke," Obi-Wan said gently at last. "I'm not your father."

For a fraction of a second the barest frown twitched the boy's features, but aside from that he didn't speak or move. He simply stared in still silence, as if struggling to assimilate the impossible.

"But you do know your father," Obi-Wan said. "You know him quite well, in fact—you have most of your life. Luke, your father is…well, you know him as Darth Vader."

Luke's eyes dropped and a breath escaped him as if he'd been dealt a body-blow, leaving Obi-Wan uncertain as to why this would be so dire a fate as to instil…

Vader's words when he'd spoken to Obi-Wan of Luke, came appallingly to mind, vitriolic hatred sparking every one. _"The day the boy stands alone is the day that I will take him to pieces and leave him to a slow, agonizing death."_

Leia's appraisal of Luke's relationship with Vader came fast on its heels, as one of mutual antagonism and antipathy: _"He had a scar above his eye, a recent one—a deep one—and Solo let slip that it was from Vader…"_

Obi-Wan looked to the scar, only now realizing the blow he'd unwittingly delivered as the youth backed up further, shaking his head in breathless denial.

.

.

.

Luke stared…simply stared, the revelation too great to even begin to comprehend in this moment.

This was wrong. He shook his head in refusal because he _knew_—had known for so long, just exactly who his father was. It was terrible and it was damning, but he _knew_. He'd known since he'd first come to Coruscant. Had known because…

"No, Palpatine had tests done years ago, when I first arrived. He told Vader that…" Luke's heart stopped, skipped a beat in his chest as realization hit him like a broadside; his own words to Han, months earlier: "_There're not many people who could lie to a Sith… except another Sith."_

"He lied." Luke said it aloud as a hole opened up beneath him, a chasm filled with questions. "Palpatine lied to Vader about who I was—he lied to me."

"Palpatine will only ever work to his own ends," Kenobi said quietly. "He cannot be trusted, ever. Are you sure you should choose to give your allegiance to a man who would do such a thing so readily?"

For a moment longer Luke didn't react, barely listening, lost in his own disillusionment…then he straightened as Kenobi's words sank in, instantly on the defensive again as the argument moved to more familiar ground. "As opposed to you, a radical who rebels against the legitimate government?"

"The Empire is not a legitimate government. It gained power by a military coup."

"This from the man who's trying to claim it by militant force."

"Are you defending him—still? He deserves neither respect nor loyalty—especially from you."

"But you do, I suppose?"

Kenobi's expression softened at the challenge, a half-smile coming to his lips. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm asking you to give them to someone far more important…yourself. You're better than this, Luke. You have a rare gift. Don't waste it, or ever think otherwise, and don't let another lead you to do so. You don't have to live your life by the orders of someone who lies and manipulates you for his own ends."

Luke took another step back, aware that without once drawing the antiquated saber at his belt Kenobi was delivering blow after blow, each one battering against the shields Luke had spent a lifetime constructing, on the knowledge of who and what he was.

"Luke, you deserve better than this. The man you give your loyalty to will only ever pull you down and use you. You have the potential to do so much, don't let him steal that from you. Don't let him drag you down into Darkness when you're capable of so much more."

There was a frightening sincerity to Kenobi's words, an undisguised desire to help, and it buckled Luke's world beneath him. How could the man possibly have faith in him?

"This…this holds me together."

"No, it doesn't hold you together, Luke…you do that, all on your own. You don't need anything else—you certainly don't need this."

"It's not what I need, it's what I am."

Abandoned to his fate, Luke had become what he'd needed to be—what Palpatine had wanted him to be. Alone amidst the chaos of constant, raging, ruthless persecution, he had dug deep and found a way to endure…and he had used it. He always would. Because when everything else fell apart, that remained, offering the strength to survive.

The Darkness was part of him, and had been as far back as he could remember. It had kept him alive when nothing else could, had given him the strength to withstand the savage discipline of a Sith Master. It had sustained him for years, his rock when everything else was chaos. It was all that Luke had. His loyalty, his willingness to serve…they were all that he was. The only parts of himself that held any real value, Luke knew that—had been told, so very often by his…by his Master.

And now Kenobi stood here, claiming that the very thing that gave Luke even an iota of worth, was wrong. That his loyalty and his ability to summon the Force in his Master's name, were wrong. That everything…_everything_ he'd believed about his past was wrong…

What gave him the right to take all this from Luke now, simply because it didn't conform with his own view?

He grasped at his own anger like a lifeline and held it to him. "You don't betray your Master…ever." It was the mantra he'd had drilled into him since childhood. The only thing that had ever earned him even a shadow of praise, for obeying.

.

.

.

Obi-Wan watched the youth pull back, saw him grasp for the familiar, bludgeoned by too many truths.

Palpatine had poured so much into creating his fledgling Sith, that much had been clear from the boy's mindset when he'd come here tonight. From his belief that there could be only one response to any grievance. It was clear in his blind loyalty even now, when the truth had shaken him to his core.

He could sense Luke's resistance flare, a reflex antagonism than cut in to protect himself from that most damaging of emotions—hope. How often had the growing child dared to do so, only to have Palpatine rip it apart and stamp it mercilessly down, that the young man before him would resort to such lengths to protect himself from it, now?

But despite everything, despite every deception and oppressive manipulation that Palpatine had beaten into him, the boy was still standing here. He spoke the words and clung to the dogma with absolute, ground-in conviction…yet he still remained, eyes on Obi-Wan, willing to listen, to consider that his view of the universe might be incomplete, though it so clearly went against everything that he would have been taught.

And if he was willing to listen, then Obi-Wan had so much to say.

"Luke, I can tell you everything…everything that's been withheld. But I must ask something of you in return."

Sky blue eyes came to Kenobi's, so much like his father's—and deeply wary.

He wouldn't convince the boy today, Obi-Wan knew that. The lessons that Palpatine had pummelled into the child he'd held for so long were too deep to overrule in a single moment, no matter what the lever. But if he could win his trust… Again Obi-Wan hesitated, looking into those eyes so much like Anakin's, aware of all that had been lost at his father's hands.

"I want to tell you the truth…but it can be a dangerous thing. A powerful thing."

This time Obi-Wan felt the barest shimmer of a presence brush against his own dense shields, subtle and diffuse, fine as a pinprick and gone the moment he sensed it. But those blue eyes narrowed knowingly.

"You want to know that I won't use the knowledge as a weapon."

Had the boy read that? Obi-Wan hadn't sensed his shields breached. Strength—brute strength—was what his father had derived from his incredible connection to the Force, but his son—he'd turned that same capacity to hidden subtlety so finely honed that his ability was almost invisible, even this close. Why would he learn such a thing, for a Master who only ever valued raw power? And how potent was he, to do it at all?

If Obi-Wan told him the truth, was he honing a weapon for or against Palpatine?

He paused, looking to the Force for guidance…

…  
...

_A dark chamber, vast and echoing, lit by the glow of naked starlight unfiltered by atmospheric diffusion… Steps, to a single chair—a throne. Something bright and hard flashed in the light as it clattered awkwardly down them…a lightsaber, abandoned._

_'I won't fight you.' The disembodied voice was more a thought than words, a willingness to sacrifice all: 'I won't fight you.'_

_"But I will." Another mind, another will, words spoken harsh and loud with just as much determination and commitment—but shot through with a Darkness that gave no ground, made no such concession…  
_...  
…

He opened his eyes slowly, reality bleeding back in around him…to see Luke do the same, those pale blue eyes instantly aware. Had he seen? Had he picked his way again into Obi-Wan's mind? "Who spoke—"

"I don't know." Luke's reply came as Obi-Wan asked, his answer overlapping the question.

There was a stretched instant as Luke glanced to the side, angry at having given away so much unintentionally.

He was powerful…uniquely so. With a dreadful realization, Obi-Wan knew that his sister wouldn't bring him down. Leia's abilities were honed and exceptional…but she was compassion and empathy, whilst he was assertive and martial. As it had always been.

But then, one did not always have to fight with the physical, and the greatest skill that Leia possessed was her ability to judge clearly… And she trusted Luke Antilles…Luke Skywalker. Despite everything Obi-Wan now knew—despite Luke's willingly blind loyalty, despite that soul-deep twist of Darkness…should he do the same?

"I need to know that I can trust you," Obi-Wan stated solemnly. "In order to do that, I need to ask you some questions about your past…and I must ask you to open your mind when you answer them."

The youth leaned back, that reflexive need to protect himself instantly cutting in.

"You would ask the same in my position," Obi-Wan said, seeing no way to lie to the boy. "That's the exchange, Luke; the truth for the truth."

Obi-Wan gave him a moment then reached out his hand, intending to rest it against Luke's face to better get a sense of him, and again Luke leaned back, maintaining the distance between them. "Please?" Obi-Wan asked…and Luke grated his jaw as he glanced down, deeply uneasy. But it was in acceptance, not avoidance.

Obi-Wan felt Luke tense as he lightly rested the tips of his fingers against Luke's face, felt his whole body primed to fight at a simple touch…felt the conscious effort that was required simply for the boy to drop his shields sufficiently to be read, even partially. Wondered momentarily how long it was since the boy had truly trusted anyone.

"Luke…I need you to tell me whether you've told anyone—anyone at all—about Leia."

"No."

_Truth, amid a maelstrom of suppressed agitation, to be this vulnerable. _

"But Vader knows about her anyway," Luke added. "He knows from the Death Star."

"He knows her name?"

"I don't think so, no. But if he knows she exists, and that she's been trained, he'll be putting all his effort into finding her."

"Does Palpatine know?"

"…No."

_Guilt, deep and painful, wiring the boy tighter. _

He could have told his Master, Obi-Wan realized; should have told him, but had chosen not to.

"Why did you not…"

A flare of panic scorched across the link and into Obi-Wan's attentive senses as Luke turned quickly away, recognition lighting a second later as he whispered, "Vader!"

Every possibly shield had slammed into being, cutting Obi-Wan off entirely, but he'd sensed in that same second all that Luke had: Vader's presence, close by and searching, looking specifically for Luke…taking the opportunity inadvertently offered as Luke had dropped his shields, to zero in on his position.

"Stormtroopers—he has stormtroopers with him—around fifty, I think." Luke was already walking for the door. "You need to get out, now. There are—"

"You!"

Obi-Wan turned at the same time as Luke did. The storage bay's door was still sliding back on its runners as Leia stepped in to stride quickly forward, her eyes on Luke. "What did you do?"

He didn't answer her as she neared, but simply stared, unintimidated.

"You dropped your shields," Leia accused. "You've never done that before—ever. Was it so that someone would know you were here?"

Behind her the dark-haired Solo entered, several steps back, his sense equal parts confusion, alarm and concern.

"Leia, he did that at my request," Obi-Wan said quickly.

"Something's wrong," Leia said. "Can you sense it?"

Luke didn't hesitate, or try to soften the blow. "Vader's on his way here, now. He has four units of stormtroopers, who are spreading out. They know where I am."

"Vader?"

"You need to be gone by the time he gets here," Luke said.

"How close are they?" Leia asked.

Obi-Wan sensed her own capable abilities begin to widen as she spoke, intending to lock the stormtroopers' positions down.

"Don't!" Luke said quickly, arm rising. "He doesn't know you're here—either of you. He only sensed me, because I wasn't shielding. You need to get out now, and stay well ahead of him." He paused, head tilting and turning slightly as his senses burst out like the shockwave from a detonation, potent and all-encompassing. "They're splitting up. He knows I'm on the skyhook."

"Why would Vader come after you?" Leia asked.

"Maybe he figures he owes me," Luke said vaguely, attention split. "And for him to bring that many troops along, he's pretty sure he's got something on me."

Obi-Wan glanced about. "How close are they to the skyhook?"

Luke narrowed his eyes in deliberation. "Close enough to be in the corridors before we get to our transport."

"I presume you know a way out which will get you to it without crossing their paths?"

Luke nodded. "I told you, this is a smuggler's run. I know ten."

"Then I'd appreciate your ensuring that Leia gets back to the transport."

The boy nodded, used to taking orders without hesitation—then paused. "What about you?"

Obi-Wan settled back against the packing crate. "I believe I'll stay here."

Luke stared for long seconds…then shook his head. "It won't change anything."

Obi-Wan tightened his lips slightly, holding firm. "Perhaps not."

"It won't buy his gratitude, to tell him," Luke said bluntly—but then, perhaps such brusque directness was all he'd been subjected to. "He'll still want you dead."

"Perhaps I know him better than you think."

"You knew who he was maybe, not who he is now. I know Vader, and I can tell you, this will change nothing, not for him."

Obi-Wan remained silent, and the youth straightened, a little of Leia's rambunctious nature showing in him now. He glanced to Leia, then back to Obi-Wan, his desire to speak obvious.

Obi-Wan turned, the only calm voice amid rising alarm. "Leia, could you give us a moment?"

"Master, you can't seriously..."

"Please, just a moment."

Leia stared for long seconds, bursting to say so much…then turned about.

She was barely out of hearing before Luke spoke, fast and low. "I know what you're doing. You think you can buy Leia's safety by removing her from Vader's attention and centering it on yourself. If you do, you'll be buying it with your own life."

It was clear from Luke's face that he also understood what he himself would be giving up, in allowing it. All the answers that Obi-Wan had promised…they could all be lost to a single swing of a saber blade.

Yet it was also clear that he was willing to respect Obi-Wan's decision.

He sighed, glancing about at the storage crates that were stacked haphazardly here and there, remembering what they contained. Walking to one nearby, he used the Force to prise open its seal, revealing neatly packed laboratory vials, and lifted two clear. One, he opened, and the other he pressed hard against the edge of the crate, shattering it. Pulling its sharp edge across the heel of his hand, he allowed a small trickle of blood to quarter-fill the first small vial, then capped it and held it out to Luke. "For proof."

Luke shook his head, but Obi-Wan pressed on. "I'm sure that there'll be moments when you doubt, or when others will try to make you. Take it."

Luke frowned as he took the vial without looking up. He stared at it for long seconds, misgivings obvious…then he shook his head, finding his voice again. "You should leave. I can't and I won't protect you from Palpatine."

"And Vader?"

Luke scowled, instantly offended. "I'm not afraid of Vader."

"Well then, why should I be? Besides, I have something to discuss with Anakin."

"Anakin?"

Obi-Wan nodded with a gentle half-smile. "That's your father's true name: Anakin."

Luke stared, frozen for long seconds… "He hates me."

Obi-Wan felt a wave of pity roll through him at the youth's absolute belief in that fact. "Things can change."

"Not that." Luke glanced quickly to his right. "They're closing." He looked back to Obi-Wan, who met his eye quietly. "Don't fight him."

"I'm not looking for a fight, Luke. You know that."

"He is—he will. If you duel him, you'll lose." Again he turned to the side, his mounting tension telling of the troops closing—and of Vader.

Obi-Wan nodded towards Leia, who came quickly forward, the words she'd been waiting to say coming fast. "Master, we can all get out of here together."

"Leia…I need to speak with Vader."

"About what? There's nothing left to say—how many times have you told me that?"

"I was wrong," Obi-Wan admitted simply. "I need you to leave, and it has to be now, if you're to remain undetected. You need to get back to the scoutship—Chewie is still waiting, and the number of troopers out there will only rise, now."

"Chewie can come to us."

"No, if they know we're onboard the skyhook they'll be waiting for any ship that breaks the traffic flow to try for an extraction."

Leia glanced to Luke, and he looked down, avoiding her eyes.

"Leia," Obi-Wan took her face in his hands, his voice calm and quiet—but grave. "I need you to do this. Our destinies take us all on different paths, you know that."

"But…"

"And this is mine—I'm sure of that. I have to speak to Vader."

"Then let me stay!"

Obi-Wan smiled against her concern. "No. You need to return to the scoutship—you know that Chewbacca won't leave until you do. Every minute you defer now, you're placing him in greater danger. I'll contact you as soon as I'm able, for a pick-up."

"There must be a way to…"

"Leia…"

In the silence, as Obi-Wan looked into her earnest brown eyes, it was Luke who provided a reason, turning away to mutter it, though Obi-Wan didn't know if his impatience was real or feigned.

Leia glanced to him. "What?"

"I said, you never question an order in the field—any soldier knows that."

Leia frowned. "I'm a Jedi, not a soldier."

"Really? Because if I'm not mistaken, every intel text on the man who taught you that, names him as _General_ Kenobi. And I'm pretty damn sure you're not planning to negotiate your way past four full units of stormtroopers—who are, incidentally, still closing."

"He has a point," Obi-Wan said mildly, wishing to side with neither. "Time is short."

Leia scowled, first at Luke in annoyance, then to Obi-Wan, in reluctance…but she nodded, at last.

"Remember," Obi-Wan cautioned, aware of what might come to pass. "Always, _always_ think before you act—of your own intentions and of other peoples, and always consider the consequences. Never act in haste."

Again Leia nodded, so clearly wanting to say more, and Obi-Wan held her eye with the barest knowing nod. "And remember, the Force will be with you—always."

As she turned to set reluctantly off Luke glanced away, senses trained on the closing threat, then back to Obi-Wan. "He's…he's heavy on his feet and more vulnerable to low attacks—don't try to press him from mid-ground. And you can goad him into an aggressive attack even if he knows he's in a poor position."

Obi-Wan nodded slightly. "One always could."

"C'mon!" The pilot, Solo, remained at the sliding door, but he wanted to be gone.

"And keep moving," Luke said as he began to back away, heading for the storage bay's door. "Stay on open ground. Don't let him corner you or you're dead."

"Luke…" The youth paused as Obi-Wan spoke out…and for a second he hesitated, uncertain what he'd intended to say. So much, with so little time. "Promise me you'll think on everything we've spoken about—on Palpatine, on your place here…you don't have to follow in Vader's footsteps." The boy glanced down uncomfortably as Obi-Wan added, "He was a good man, once—a good friend—but Palpatine led him down a Dark path for his own advantage. Don't let him use you, too. If you choose to take nothing else from the past, then at least learn from its mistakes."

The troopers were close now; Obi-Wan glanced to the side in the same moment that the boy did, aware of the stony intent of military minds. He looked back to Luke. "You'll hold to your word?"

Luke nodded solemnly. "I'll get her out."

"Luke!" The Corellian took a step forward, agitation fairly blasting out of him. "We need to leave—now!"

Obi-Wan looked to the Solo, aware of his brotherly concern as he gestured to Luke, who turned to jog quickly away and out of the storage bay…and of Solo's genuine, very different concern as Leia passed him, his hand going briefly to the small of her back. He glanced to Obi-Wan and nodded once, the gesture part acknowledgment, part unspoken promise that he'd do his part to get them out…then he was gone, leaving Obi-Wan to stare into the shadows of the echoing room feeling…what?

Hope for the boy was too strong a word. He had walked a Dark path for most of his life, and Jedi teachings held that one who had walked in Darkness could never return to the Light, but… Obi-Wan allowed himself a momentary smile; always, with Skywalkers, there was a _but_.

Because that horrified tumult of emotions that had wracked Luke at the realization that he was in some small way involved in Bail and Breha Organa's demise had been too real and far too visceral to have been manufactured.

And Darkness did not regret. It did not feel remorse, nor pity, nor compunction.

So what was Luke? He quite clearly had the education and the skills of a Sith…but did he have the disposition? Palpatine had, by all accounts, spent a great deal of time and effort grinding that into the youth, but…_but_. Again, that _but_, as Obi-Wan came back to that moment—to the wretched grief that had poured unchecked from the boy at Bail and Breha's deaths…and he couldn't condemn him.

Certainly Luke had known what Obi-Wan had chosen to do in facing Vader, aware that it would buy Leia the time she needed to escape. And the boy had respected that. Again, hardly the actions of a Sith advocate—as was walking away from Obi-Wan at all, let alone to aid another Jedi's escape.

Yet Obi-Wan hadn't told Luke that Leia was his sister, nor Leia that it was her brother who had agreed to shield her from Vader. It would be easy to claim that he'd not had time, but much as he wanted to trust the boy, it had been prudence that had held him back. Even now.

So for the time being, this was the safest option, with Leia buffered from the truth by the simple fact of Luke's obviously habitual caution, which meant that he wouldn't simply blurt out to Leia what Obi-Wan had told him. He'd already avoided doing so, consciously holding back when trying to persuade Obi-Wan to leave, in front of Leia. He'd undoubtedly hold the truth of his own father's identity secret, first for fear of Palpatine finding out, and second because, judging from his reticence when Obi-Wan had wanted to ask questions, he wasn't inclined to let people into his life or simply give information out. Even if Leia remained in contact with him, it would take a good deal of trust and communication on both their parts, for the inter-related facts to come to light. If they formed a rapport, then the rest would fall into place and they would learn the truth, each from the other. If not, then Leia would carry no weakness, as Master Yoda had always intended. It was the best Obi-Wan could hope for, in the moment.

His thoughts went briefly back to Luke's claim that he knew _Vader_—knew the man that Anakin had become, rather than the youth that Obi-Wan had fought beside. Was he right, and nothing that Obi-Wan said would impact on the composure of a true Sith? Obi-Wan stilled in consideration of that, for the first time realizing that if that were true, then telling Vader of his son would effectively sign the boy's death warrant. If Vader chose to take that knowledge back to his Emperor, the very fact that Palpatine had kept it hidden for so long meant that he would doubtless feel threatened enough by its exposure to fall back once more on the Rule of Two, and choose to keep only one Sith adjutant… And since Obi-Wan was sure that the boy wouldn't willingly tell his Master any of this, it would soon become clear that though they both knew the truth, only one had taken it back to their Master.

Should he, then, withhold the truth? Obi-Wan glanced to the bay doors, freshly uncertain as to whether to stay or withdraw… Surely he had to give Vader this chance—had to give Anakin the opportunity to reclaim so much of himself. But he wouldn't put the boy in danger to do so, Obi-Wan decided. More importantly, he wouldn't risk Leia. She was the final hope, to prevent the galaxy from falling once again into the darkness of another Sith dynasty, and he couldn't risk that. At all costs, that was what he would protect—with his life, if necessary.

He glanced to the door, sensing the pall of true Darkness that clung to his old friend and enemy both, closing now. Perhaps the riddle that was Anakin's son would be for another to untangle. For now, he must concentrate on the moment, as Qui-Gon had always admonished him.

He tucked all knowledge of dangerous truths away deep within, as he settled back once more on the storage crate, and waited. If he did tell Anakin of his son's existence tonight, it would be in his own time and on his own terms.

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To be continued...

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	23. Chapter 23

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**CHAPTER TWENTY THREE**

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Vader strode through the wide, empty corridors of the massive skyhook, two units of stormtroopers marching hot on his heels, the other two already divided up to make sure that no one slunk off unnoticed. This time he had him—he had Antilles at fault…and he very much suspected he knew how.

The brief, flickering flare of Antilles' signature within the Force, reluctant and deeply wary, had uncloaked and then snuffed itself silent in seconds, but it was all that Vader had needed to pinpoint him as being onboard the skyhook.

He rounded a bend leading to the deep storage bays, attention momentarily taken by two Bothans and a Choi as they backed up against the wall to let the unexpected Imperial presence in their midst pass unhindered. All were armed, but apparently intelligent enough to know when to leave their blasters in their holsters.

Vader knew, of course, that this skyhook was owned by Xizor, the Falleen head of Black Sun. Given the choice, Vader would have removed him and the whole of his seedy crime syndicate long ago, regardless of its size and reach, but his Master tolerated it for his own private reasons, and so Vader and Xizor had been left to an uneasy antipathy of intermittent rebuffs and rebukes. Xizor would doubtless be contacting the Emperor right now, asking in the most politic but slighted terms why exactly four units of stormtroopers and Darth Vader himself were walking down the corridors of one of Black Sun's numerous stash-sites on Coruscant.

And what a reason to be able to cite, when asked. Surely—_surely_ the boy wasn't fool enough to try to meet Kenobi? When Ashtor had produced the stolen scrap of paper with a sketch of Kenobi on it, Vader had wondered… He knew that the sketches were a way into Antilles' head, and so the image meant that Kenobi was in the boy's thoughts. And that his actions of late had been more taciturn and wayward than ever, but still…

It had been the complex twist of veiled connections which had hovered at the very edge of Vader's awareness to pull the disparate fragments together. The recollection of that same cloaked aura just weeks ago on the Death Star, when Kenobi had tried to hide his presence there, that had made him think—made him hope. He may yet be wrong. But if Antilles was trying to engineer a meeting with Kenobi on Coruscant, it would be one of the most foolhardy and damning things he'd ever attempted—and if so, then Vader intended to catch him red-handed.

There could be other reasons for his being on the Intos skyhook, of course. But Antilles' disappearance coupled with his knowledge of the Black Sun safehouses—that they, like the narrow corridors of unmonitored space by which Xizor ferried his contraband cargo ships into and off of Coruscant beneath the radar, were not patrolled by official channels—meant that it would be one of the few safe places that such an event could possibly take place.

He came to a stop before the tall double-doors of a storage bay, feeling the tingle of a Force-presence from within… And quite suddenly, it unmasked—and Vader knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the vague hunch he'd chosen to play was real.

This was it; this was his opportunity. This was Kenobi, here, on Coruscant! He could kill the father and bring down the son in one fell swoop.

Taking his saber from his belt, Vader took a step forward—and paused, looking to the side. Because another Force-presence sang out, brief and bright: Antilles! Vader glanced back to the closed doors, realizing that half his quarry had fled already.

He snarled, torn momentarily, then whirled about, barking an order. "Captain! Take both units and work your way across the skyhook. Commander Antilles is to be hunted down and apprehended, at all costs."

"Sir?"

"Do as I order! You're authorized to use any force necessary to stop him, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir. Do you require part of the unit to remain here?"

Vader looked back to the bay doors, the trace of a satisfied smile audible in his voice; this time…this time, they finished it. "No, Captain. This will be brief and conclusive."

Vader watched, torn, as the stormtroopers set off in search of Antilles as ordered, then pulled his mind back to the moment to enter the darkened storage bay, knowing that Kenobi was somewhere within. The boy was going nowhere; there were enough troops in the skyhook to bring him to heel, for an ignominious return to his Master...if he even made it that far. No; Kenobi was his first target.

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A half-pace short of a full-out run, Han followed Luke as they moved quickly down the empty corridors of the skyhook, Leia a step behind. To date, everyone had had the good sense to keep quiet and keep moving, but when the kid slowed at a five-way crossroad Han had to ask, words clipped as he gulped in breaths.

"What the hell happened—how did Vader end up on our heels?"

Luke glanced to him, attention still on the multiple exits. "I dropped my shields for a moment, to let Kenobi read me." He shook his head in self-censure. "Stupid thing to do anyway. Vader must have been already looking for us, and when he sensed me he used it to pinpoint our location. I knew—I _knew_ something was wrong!"

Han's mind went briefly back to the number of times that the kid had paused to glance about him on the way here, clearly trying to pin down a hunch.

Leia, who had taken a few more steps before she stopped, turned back to him as she glanced about. "What, don't you know which way to the transport?"

"I know exactly which way leads to the transport," Luke replied without looking. "I also know there's about eighteen stormtroopers between us and it."

She took the lightsaber from her belt. "I can deal with that."

Han took a fast step forward. "Woah, let's not get over-zealous here!" Avoiding Vader was one thing, mowing down Imperial troops was another entirely.

Luke's reply was more logical. "You can't use a lightsaber, otherwise the troopers will report to Vader that there's a second Jedi here, and you can't use the Force or he'll know you're here anyway."

"We need to get out! I need to get to the scoutship and be ready when Obi-Wan signals."

"You need to do as you were ordered by your Master, and that was to get out under the radar."

Han stepped in, looking to head off the fight. "What about the smugglers' passageways?"

Luke shook his head. "Either Vader knew about them, or Xizor's people have been ordered to co-operate."

"They're in the passages," Han groaned. "What about the transport?"

"They're not that high up yet—and as long as they think we're down here, they're not about to be. Do you have a blaster with you?"

Han reached beneath his jacket to pull out what now seemed a pitifully underpowered holdout pistol. "I got this."

Luke glanced down, a momentary smile dispelling his grim frame of mind. "Seriously? What were you gonna do with that?"

"Hey, it's got ten shots."

"Through armor? And did you miss the bit where I just said there were eighteen stormtroopers heading this way?"

Han straightened. "I'm not gonna fire on Imperial troops."

Leia tipped her head. "Maybe I should just go on my own."

"No," Han held firm, turning to her. "We're goin' with you."

"No," Luke said. "You are."

"What?"

"You go with her. I'll stay down here and draw their f…their attention."

"No way—absolutely not."

Luke's eyes and attention drifted off again. "The stormtroopers are splitting up, searching by level. You two need to find somewhere to lay low, and give me some time. I'll draw them back down, away from the transport."

"No," Han said categorically. "We find another way out…another transport or something."

"There are more stormtroopers in the bays than there are in the corridors, and you can pretty much guarantee that any bay that isn't guarded is probably empty. Your best chance is still the transport we arrived in."

"That doesn't mean we split up."

"I don't need anyone's help," Leia reiterated.

Luke turned. "I told Kenobi I'd get you out—let me do what I said." He paused; a moment's hesitation. "Xizor has a narrow flight path that he uses to smuggle ships in and out of the Capital. The co-ordinates are directly above this skyhook. When you get back to your scoutship just lay low and wait—the troopers won't stay on the skyhook long, Xizor will make sure of that. When it's clear, set a geostationary exit point through the outer atmosphere from directly above the skyhook, and you'll be in that unmonitored flight corridor—you'll have a clear exit."

Leia nodded. "I have to come back anyway, to make the pick-up as soon as Obi-Wan signals."

Luke nodded numbly, glancing away, and her voice softened and became more resolute in the same breath. "I know what you're thinking. I'm not stupid, I know he's in danger…but he'll get out. He's faced Vader before. He'll get out."

Kid only nodded again, turning to Han. "I'll keep going down. If I make enough noise, they'll follow me—I'm the one who Vader will have sent them after, anyway. They're probably not even looking for anyone else."

"No, uh-uh. What if they open fire?"

"Seriously, you think a stormtrooper with a blaster will bring me down?"

"No." The memory of what had happened when the Sinto spy, Derrig, had tried to pull a gun on the kid was indelibly etched into Han's mind. "But I think eighteen might."

"Just go. Take normal corridors, as if you work here." Luke had started pushing Han backwards, impatient as ever. "When you get back, tell Indo you knew I'd disappeared so you went looking for me, but didn't find me."

Han stared, torn, but the kid was already backing up to disappear around the curve of the utilitarian hallway. Han glanced back to Leia, and she tilted her head. "A Sith against eighteen stormtroopers? He's the last one you should be worrying about." She tugged at his wrist. "C'mon, Flyboy, let's take a stroll."

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The wide door of the storage bay dragged reluctantly aside on rusted runners, letting a bright splash of light from the corridor behind Vader reach into the echoing bay. Beyond that, the broad room's broken, scattered shadows held sway, their diffuse limits marked only by emergency lighting which picked out the hard edges of storage crates grouped several high, obscuring the view. Slowing as he entered, Vader glanced about…and laid within a patch of wan light in the center of the floor was Kenobi's lightsaber.

His old Master walked into view across the stretch of darkened shadows, and Vader lifted his head, hand tightening about his own saber. "What tricks this time, Obi-Wan?"

"No tricks...truths. But dangerous all the same."

"Only to you, for being fool enough to come here to speak them—and to the boy, for being gullible enough to listen. I knew," Vader gloated as he closed, "I knew he'd eventually damn himself by his own actions."

"Damn himself?"

"When the Emperor finds out that he was here…" Vader didn't bother to finish, the threat implicit.

Kenobi nodded. "Because he couldn't risk Luke finding out the truth."

"He already knows the truth."

"Indeed?" Kenobi said mildly. There was a wariness to the old man now, a sense of something withheld. "And you?"

"I know what the boy is to you—or what he was. He's long lost now. Palpatine owns him completely…or did you think that coming here could reverse that?"

"I had hoped," Kenobi admitted, a moment of considered introspection shadowing his senses. "Perhaps I have no right to step in so late. Had I known, I would have done so long ago. Maybe if I had…" He hesitated again, seeming quite suddenly his age; an old man, harried and beleaguered, and plagued by doubts.

Reaching the center of the room Vader stepped forward to place a booted foot upon the surrendered lightsaber, laid on the scuffed floor.

Obi-Wan glanced only briefly to it, then looked searchingly to Vader. "Why did you do it, Anakin? You betrayed your beliefs, your principles, your comrades…why?

"_You were like a brother to me, Anakin!"_ Old accusations jumped across the decades, still charged with disillusionment.

Vader lowered his free hand…and Obi-Wan's lightsaber lifted to it. He clipped it to his belt, eyes never leaving Kenobi. "You are appealing to a man who no longer exists. You burned and buried him on Mustafar."

"No, you alone killed him. You betrayed him and vanquished him." Obi-Wan shook his head, voice soft. "Tell me why—and I can tell you so much. So much that can be retrieved."

"I want nothing of that life! It was small and it was chained, limited by you and your kind!"

"And what is it now? Have you found fulfillment and triumph…or is it an empty, barren void? There were no chains, Anakin—save those of responsibility, and we all carry those. If we're wise, we carry them lightly and with pride."

Vader shook his head. "Still lecturing, even now?"

"No. Still looking for some fragment of the friend I had such faith in…even now."

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Luke slowed, using the wide curve of the utilitarian corridor to hide him from the two stormtroopers barely ten steps ahead. He'd been following them for the last few minutes, waiting until the loop corridor they'd been checking finally took them past a turbolift. The massed troopers had considerately divided first into three groups of six, then into two-man elements in order to cover the myriad of corridors on the skyhook, which also, incidentally, made them easier to pick off—with a little work.

He hesitated, reining himself in as he glanced quickly out at…what? They weren't enemies. But an inconvenience was an inconvenience, his Master had always taught him—and Luke was looking at the receding backs of two, right now.

Stepping clear of his cover, his hand slid to the lightsaber at the small of his back as he brought his other arm up, fingers splayed—

For a second he closed his eyes, hand tightening about the saber hilt without pulling it free, aware of how vulnerable the concentration and pinpoint precision required to reach into two minds with sufficient force to overload them without permanent damage made him, if only for a second or two.

Both troopers went down with barely a noise, save for the rattle of their armor hitting the hard deck, and Luke let his hand drop free of his lightsaber as he set forward.

Slowing as he reached the downed troopers, Luke turned to summon the turbolift before he grabbed the blaster rifle from the nearest and put his heel to the downed trooper's shoulder to drag his helmet off, turning it as he lifted it to check that the internal comlink was set to an open channel. He pulled it on with barely a moment's hesitation; it wasn't the first time he'd worn or used one.

A momentary pause, in which to get his thoughts in order and look about to confirm the level he was standing on, then he spoke quickly. "All units, we have a positive sighting on level eight, I repeat, we have a positive…wait! Hey, wh—!" Holding the trooper's blaster out from his side, Luke fired two fast shots into the floor before him, then yanked the helmet off and took a second to push it back onto the trooper's head—no point in making it instantly obvious what he'd done—before rising to walk to the turbolift, aware that he'd have company very soon.

He could have lied about the level, of course, but it would have taken only a second to contact their troop transport, wherever it was, and have it pin down the locators set into the downed stormtroopers' armor. And as he'd bent a moment ago, he'd noted that the troopers Vader had brought with him were 501st. Not so good; the 501st were still comprised mainly of Fett clones, and had a well-deserved reputation as crack units, tried and tested under fire. He'd been lucky to have crept up on the first two; now that they were expecting trouble, he doubted he'd be so again.

Still, having called them all down here, and so away from Han and Leia, Luke had every intention of getting _off _level eight in the next minute. As the turbolift door slid back, he set the level for five, the lowest level that still contained landing bays, running through his memory of their locations.

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"C'mon!" Hitting the door release on the still-deserted landing bay they'd come in through, Han set forward at a run with Leia three steps behind him. They'd reached the skimmer without a problem, which was more worrying to Han than if they'd had trouble, because it meant that the kid was making one hell of a noise somewhere else.

Lifting the gull-wing door he dropped into the pilot's seat, only to have Leia nudge him. "Move over."

"You know I'm a pilot, right?"

"Yes, I was there above the Death Star, remember?" she said dryly as she pushed him again. "In fact, I think you opened fire on me—more than once."

"Uh…I think that was Luke," Han said—and instantly regretted dropping the kid in it.

Leia tipped her head. "Whatever. More to the point, do you know how to jump this thing?"

"Not this particular one," Han allowed cagily, finally giving way to hunch over onto the opposite seat, since it was Leia who'd jumped the skimmer to get them here in the first place.

As the small civilian craft shot clear of the bay and Han let out a silent sigh of relief, he stared at the holdout blaster in his hand, not entirely sure what he would have done if he'd come up against stormtroopers anyway. He'd gone through basic training with many, before Carida; shared barracks with them on countless ships, knew some by name…

But Leia had risked so much in bringing Kenobi here, for no other reason than that she knew on some deep level how much it meant to Luke, even if she didn't know why. Done it because she saw how messed up the kid was, and wanted to help him—said that Kenobi wanted to help him…and Han had no idea who was who in this damn war any more. No idea who he should be standing behind. The Empire he'd sworn to defend didn't exist, he knew that now. Leia was right, he'd been a kid not much older than Luke was now, and desperate to make some kind of life for himself, when he'd spoken that oath.

And what was he doing right now? Helping a Jedi evade capture…a Jedi, no less. Up until this moment, he'd somehow convinced himself that this had just been about the woman with the quirky smile and the big brown eyes, but that wasn't the truth of it—that wasn't the truth of it at all.

Han blinked as another realization hitting him broadside; because here he was, claiming to Leia that Luke'd never even consider betraying the Empire…and what the hell was the kid doing right now, too? A stray memory lit, of when Luke had corrected Vader on the Death Star. Vader had claimed that something was done "in the Empire's service," and Luke had said pretty damn categorically, "in the Emperor's."

Han stared into the night as the small skimmer raced through the high-level fast lanes, feeling that despite the ambush and the tumult and the hasty, headlong dash for escape, some kind of epiphany had taken place.

Leia turned to him, alarm in her voice. "What?"

"In the Emperor's service," he said quickly. "Not the Empire's, the Emperor's!"

"…What?"

"Listen!" He took her arm, and the skimmer slewed slightly. "Luke—you asked would he leave, would he leave all this behind."

She risked another glance to him, frowning.

"Look at this!" Han said, pointing behind him though the skyhook was no longer visible, having long-since disappeared beyond sight. "Look at what he's doing right now! You want to know whether he's worth saving, well look! He doesn't give a damn about the Empire. It's Palpatine who's got his claws in him. That's it—that's all of it. That's what all this is!"

It was so obvious! That was why the kid blanched at what he did in the Empire's name. That was why he remembered all those people; because he knew—he _knew_ that it was wrong! He'd have no part of it at all if it wasn't for Palpatine. "It's Palpatine—Palpatine who holds him here, and nothing else! He serves because it's Palpatine's obsession, and that's enough for Luke."

"Han…" She hesitated, then said it anyway. "He serves because he's a Sith. That's—"

"He's not a Sith—I know you think he is, and I understand that. But you both…you just got off on the wrong foot." She raised her eyebrows at that, though she didn't turn from flying, and Han brought his hands up in allowance. "Okay, he does a good job of puttin' up a great front, I know that. But…I don't even know what to tell you—all I can say is, he's not Sith. He's not like them."

"Han, I'm sorry, he's…"

"Eyes!" Han straightened, leaning back to hold a finger up in adamant realization. "His eyes haven't changed! A Sith's eyes change, right? Luke told me that once, when Old Yellow Eyes was digging at him for something, and he dragged that up—that the kid's eyes had never changed. A Sith's eyes change to red or yellow, and his haven't!"

Leia shook her head. "You can't use that as a guide, Han. Sith can hide themselves in plain view—they can make themselves seem normal, project an image of themselves to others. Palpatine did it for years, before he took power."

"No, uh-uh. Palpatine's on the kid's back all the time about that. Why would Luke disguise it from the one person he wants to impress? Plus he uses spice too much. I've seen him pretty spiced up, and I know for a fact that it limits control of his abilities—that's why he takes it in the first place! I've seen him off his face, and his eyes never changed." Excited, Han straightened. "And that's another thing; he lies to the Emperor about his own abilities, takes spice specifically to make them seem less—to avoid Palpatine's demands. He can't…he's caught in that vicious circle, and he just can't see a way out. You want to help him, then get him out of that. Get him away from Palpatine, and you might…hell, you might even get through to him!"

"Well then, help us. You want Luke out too, I know you do. You want him away from all this. But you just said yourself, he'll always go back to Palpatine. The only way you'll stop that is to help us get rid of him. Permanently."

"I can't…" Han paused, struggling not for words, but with the very concept itself. Loss of faith in the Empire was one thing, actually going against it was another entirely. He'd still made that oath, and he still had some sense of principles. And of course… "You're talking about the Emperor. You think it's that easy?"

"Not at all. I know exactly what I'm asking." The skimmer slowed as it dropped down to street level on the very edge of the Shades, coming to a smooth stop. Leia reached out and rested her hand on Han's arm, big, earnest eyes holding his. "Han, you're in an unprecedented position. You've ended up incredibly close to the Emperor almost by default. He controls everyone around him—everyone. But because of Luke, you've somehow slipped in beneath that net. You have the opportunity so very few do—to make a difference. A huge difference—a real one—at the source of the problem. Help us."

He stared in silence as Leia searched his eyes—but she didn't push any further. "Think on it—please."

Turning about, head swimming, Han climbed from the low-slung skimmer. The level they'd stopped on was high enough and close enough that the upper levels of the Imperial Palace could be seen as he walked around the idling skimmer to her side, massive lights illuminating its famous blue stone façade.

She almost spoke, hesitated a moment…then smiled briefly. "I'll contact you."

"You'd better. 'Cos I sure as hell have no way to contact you, and…aah, hells—"

He leaned forward and took her face in both his hands, pulling her in to kiss her before she could begin to object. It was brief and it was heartfelt, and when he leaned back—and it was him who leaned back—she stared, shocked.

"That's why—and believe me, that's one hell of a reason." Han winked once, then backstepped. "Go—quickly!"

She grinned, and slewed the skimmer about in a tight skid before lifting it skywards again. Han watched for a few seconds more, shaking his head. "You sure can pick 'em, Solo."

Not at all sure whether that was a good or bad thing, he turned to look again at the brooding mass of the Imperial Palace, an ominous, towering outline which quickly wiped the smile from his face as it silently waited for his arrival, with all hells ready to break loose.

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Luke remained still, hand to the locked door of the room he'd taken refuge in, as the stormtroopers paused outside to check the door. He'd pulled his saber, and now had it resting, inactive, against the door panel on the inside of the room, waiting to see if the troopers had an override code. If they did, presumably one of them would be standing directly in front of the door panel right now in the corridor outside, to input it. His thumb rested on the inset activation button of his saber hilt, the nozzle pressed against the panel, so that if activated the blade would cut cleanly through the panel and the interconnecting wall, and into the hallway beyond…

"Locked." The muffled voice was both competent but accepting, and the sound of booted feet moved off, leaving Luke to breathe again.

Waiting until they retreated beyond hearing, Luke deactivated the lock and released the door. He paused a few seconds more in the empty corridor, widening his perceptions to take in the whole of the skyhook. Skyhook—that probably hadn't been such a great idea, all things considered. If he'd been on the ground, he could have had any number of escape options; now, onboard a skyhook, he was a fish in a barrel, limited to just a few guardable exits, and needing transport even for those. The corridors above him were crawling with stormtroopers, all heading down now that they knew where they needed to concentrate their efforts, and his intention to get out of here as quickly and as quietly as possible was beginning to run into problems.

The sound of running feet snapped Luke's head up as his gaze flicked to the cross-corridor. The curves that protected him also hindered him, in that he was as blind as his pursuers were—but he had one advantage that they didn't.

Multiple minds, focused and intent, were heading his way. Six more stormtroopers, probably coming in from their ongoing search on level eight, were not far behind. Luke glanced to the doors of several small storage bays and offices off the main ring corridor, but hiding wasn't really getting him anywhere; he needed to get to the transport bays before more troopers converged on this level.

Setting off at a jog to stay ahead of his new pursuers, Luke headed for the bays.

To one side was yet another bay door, and Luke sensed just two troopers inside—sufficient that there might be a transport in there? For two troopers, it seemed worth a shot. He could sense four more on the next level up, in almost the same position, and the six who were behind him were closing fast, another four coming in from the opposite end of the curved loop corridor now. With little time to spare Luke reached the door at speed, trying to remain out of sight as he took hold of the battered frame around the wide bay door in order to slow himself down sufficiently to slap the door activation panel, barreling through as the bay door slid aside. Still moving, he took two hasty steps forward—and stopped dead.

He saw the first stormtrooper in the same moment that the man saw him, and for a brief second of still shock each stared at the other…then the heavy laser cannon mounted to the side of the troop transport that the trooper was standing inside—the one that had doubtless brought them all here in the first place—lifted and took its first shot.

Luke threw out the Force in a protective bubble, both hands out before him to try to channel enough power to counter the incoming blast. He'd never even tried to dispel something this big before, let alone unprepared. It hit like a bodyblow, sliding him backwards as it dispersed in a wide arc about him, then instantly it was gone, and he staggered forward two clumsy steps, almost falling from having been braced against its power. The bay door behind him opened, and he swung about, hand out to it. Instantly it closed again, barely halfway through its cycle, so that he had a brief glimpse of troopers on the other side, blaster rifles raised, before he threw himself to the side in anticipation as the Force blared a warning.

The blaster canon mounted on the troop transport to the center of the bay lanced another powerful blast into the space where he'd stood, taking a good portion of the wall out in an explosion of fine debris, fragments of which stung his back and arm as he blinked against its brightness.

A splash of small arms fire peppered the wall before him and as he backstepped Luke realized that the bay was easily twice as high as he'd expected, and the troopers whom he'd thought were on the level above and therefore safely out of reaction distance, were actually standing on a high gantry to the side of the bay, with perfect fields of view. As he ran for the only shelter available—beneath a maintenance scaffold with a plate-plasteel walkway—the bay door opened again, and the stormtroopers who'd been on his tail spewed into the bay.

Turning, Luke pulled the lightsaber from his belt and planted his legs, barely lighting his saber before the hail of bolts came in. He brought the amber blade in sharply to intersect, sending them ricocheting back towards their firers and forcing the men to pull back with warning shouts, looking for cover as one of their party fell awkwardly, clutching his leg. Briefly, in the first moment that he'd had to even think rather than just react, Luke reflected that if Vader hadn't been completely certain that Luke was on the skyhook, then he sure as hell would be now.

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Vader advanced slowly, resentment and animosity boiling down into hardened resolve. Did the old man think that he could buy his own safety, in surrendering his weapon? Vader's grievances went well beyond that. It wasn't murder, it wasn't execution, it wasn't even revenge. Obi-Wan's actions had stripped Vader of everything, every possible hope, every potential future. He _deserved_ retribution.

Obi-Wan held his ground, still trying to appeal, when the judgment was long-since decided. "We've fought so many battles, Anakin…are you willing to pass those enmities onto the next generation? Are you willing to lock them onto that same path?"

"Your padawan," Vader said knowingly.

"What are we doing, Anakin, that we train children to take up the fight? Is this all that's left to us?"

"Let her take up arms against me, for taking her Master from her." Vader thumbed the activation of his lightsaber's hilt and the blade sprang forth in a flare of scarlet, humming with power, vibrating in his hand as the blade coruscated, held low, but close enough to Kenobi to cast a crimson glow that stained the pool of light in which he stood, unmoved.

"She would not lay blame—not with you." Obi-Wan shook his head. "Nor would I ask her to."

"Then you think she'll bring down Palpatine?" Vader laughed roughly. "You think she'll succeed where the rest of the Jedi fought and failed?"

"She has a pure heart."

Vader laughed. "Even Antilles could take her down. Or is that what you fear—your own bastard son, willing to bring down your padawan. Is that what you came here hoping to stop?" Vader tilted his head, voice mocking. "Then let me indulge you, _Master_ Kenobi…for old time's sake. I'll remove the threat of the boy…or rather, Palpatine will, when I take you back as proof of what he's done. "

"I won't be taken back, you know that. I hold too many secrets."

Vader tilted his head, unmoved. "I have no need of prisoners. A corpse is proof enough."

"I deny you even that," Kenobi said calmly.

Vader scowled, curling his lip at the old man's games. "The choice is not yours."

Again Vader came forward, and this time Obi-Wan backstepped, just slightly. Did he know? Did he understand his error now, in thinking that Vader wouldn't attack? Did he understand that this was the end? Vader grinned beneath his mask, hand tightening about his saber.

He halted as he prepared to step forward, momentarily thrown by the glaring flare that burst out into the Force with Antilles' unique signature, twisted through with a jolt of shock. Kenobi too tilted his head, momentarily distracted by the brief outburst, then his attention came back to the moment as he lifted empty hands in appeal.

"Anakin, that which you left behind, that which you cut all ties with, it has the power to change your life—even now. There's so much to reclaim…"

"There is nothing of that life that I want!" Vader came forward, two steps from the old man now, saber sweeping to the side, tip down. "Everything that I wanted, everything that I acted to save, is gone, because of you. You brought Padmé to Mustafar."

Obi-Wan's eyes turned down as if not seeing the blade—as if not understanding that it had been brought back to lay a blow. Instead his eyes filled with guilt and understanding, then came to Vader, searching intensely. "Would you do it again now? Give everything that you served, everything that you are, to save that which you hold dear?"

"I hold nothing close—save for my revenge on you. And the time for that is now. You go to your death knowing that your son will follow within the hour—I'll see to that."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "There is still something that has the power to change your life entirely. But I _cannot_ tell you unless I have faith that you will act rightly in this. I have made mistakes, I know that, but I will not compound them. Padmé came to Mustafar of her own will, but I didn't stop her from speaking to you. I thought that she could reach you, that she could fire the compassion and humanity within you…and she paid the price for my blind hope. I won't make that same mistake again—I won't hand another to the slaughter."

"Then step to it yourself, for your own blind trust."

Vader brought the blade forward in a lunging stab with all the power of his shoulder and torso behind it, taking that last step forward as he did so. The final stride had brought him so close to Kenobi that the buried hilt of his saber jarred as it was stopped by the old man's ribs, and Obi-Wan reached out his hand to grasp Vader's shoulder, his face raising, eyes wide.

"Anakin!" The word was a shocked choke, the last breath of a dying man.

"For Padmé," Vader growled.

The old man's chest strained as he stared, struggling for one final gasp of air, though none came…then, strangely, the barest trace of a smile touched his lips and he nodded his head just once as his face fell calm, letting the words out with his final breath. "For Padmé."

Disturbed, Vader pulled the blade free…and before his eyes, the heavy cloak that had hung on Kenobi's shoulders sagged—and the man himself faded to nothing, the clothes he had worn falling to the floor in an empty heap.

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Vader backstepped to stare at the rags, Kenobi's final words still sounding in his thoughts. Why—why had he agreed? Had he claimed that he'd somehow made the sacrifice for her? How? How had his death been anything more than long-awaited revenge? How could it have been?

He glared, ill at ease, until another thought occurred:

"_I have no need of prisoners. A corpse is proof enough."_

"_I deny you even that,"_

Antilles! Vader swung about, a guttural growl escaping him.

There were Obi-Wan's _noble_ principles; there was no sacrifice for Padmé—it was to save his own son's worthless hide. Now Vader had nothing. No proof, no… He paused, straightening as he slipped his hand beneath his cloak…and brought out a lightsaber.

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Three shots from the gantry above Luke twisted him about, as more stormtroopers crowded onto the walkway, kneeling to regain sight of their target. Luke angled his blade to ricochet the bolts back onto the damn troop transporter, hoping to give the trooper who manned the mounted cannon there pause to consider his own vulnerability. Whether it was a hit or not, the man disappeared from view, giving Luke a few moments' grace from the heavy fire.

It was brief. The far door slid open to allow another group to enter the crowded bay, weapons drawn. The sound of blaster-fire reverberated around the bay as bolts flared, exploding on impact or batted aside to impact in sparking flares on the tall struts of the maintenance tower that Luke had retreated beneath, to limit the angles of fire.

Another flurry of shots came from the gantry, spanging on the plasteel over Luke's head and spraying him with fine splinters of red-hot debris. He glanced up, aware that there were too many troopers and blasters up there.

Taking a step back, he used the Force to tumble the maintenance tower he stood beneath onto its side before him, forcing the troopers on his level to take cover as it came crashing to the ground. It afforded him extra cover from those on the bay floor, though his protection from those on the gantry was now non-existent. He looked up to the threat from the crowded gantry…

It took a second, no more, to draw the Force in and cast it out. To focus it with unerring accuracy on the multiple support struts of the high gantry. Every strut, every strength, every weakness in the structure glared, crystal clear. Luke threw up one hand, mentally tethering himself to the bay floor as he caught a solid Force-hold of the long, trooper-crowded gantry.

It moved with a brief, screeching wrench, tumbling men to their hands and knees as it cracked free of the wall behind it. A second more, a heightening of concentration and control—and the structure yanked free entirely, its supports shearing and buckling beneath it as it was pulled wholesale from the wall, bright flares of sparks marking where power cables had been threaded through individual support struts. In a cacophony of noise it toppled forwards, throwing those who weren't already holding on for their lives free as it came down, dragged as much as falling. Troopers on the bay floor scrabbled and ran to get clear as it tumbled and collapsed with a massive, thundering roar, the impact shaking the ground and raising a wide cloud of dust and debris.

Luke was already moving, using the dust for cover as he backed quickly to the bay door behind him. It slid back as he reached for the release—

And Luke was staring into the faces of two stormtroopers, standing to the other side of the door and hitting the release in the same second.

_Never hesitate,_ his Master always said; had drummed into him again and again. _Hesitate and you've already lost. Hesitate, and I'm wasting my time trying to teach you. Hesitate and you're useless—worse than that. You're a hindrance. An embarrassment. Never, ever hesitate._

Out of options and with a blaster being lifted at point-blank range, Luke brought his saber round whip-fast. The blade cut cleanly through the trooper's armor, slicing his head and part of his shoulder free as his body fell lax, armor clattering onto the scuffed floor. The second trooper yelled out in shock, bringing his blaster round. His first hasty shot went wild in a bright flash as Luke flinched, barely altering the angle of his saber blade as he brought it round in a wide sweep to intersect with the trooper's raised wrist. The blaster fired again as it fell, one white-armored hand still gripping it as the trooper spun away, dropping to his knees.

Luke glanced into the corridor; the last unit of twelve troopers had arrived and were crowding forward, blasters raised. He slammed the door control, forced to back into the bay as two bolts splashed against the heavy door.

Sparing a second to glare at the control as he backed further, Luke used the Force to twist the components within, making it flare with a brief spark of fried circuitry…and turned back, saber raised, as the first two shots came from troopers already inside the dust-fogged bay.

"Ceasefire—ceasefire!" It was the unit commander, shouting so loud to be heard above the noise that Luke too heard the command.

Silence… The pall of dust from the downed walkway mixed with smoke and ozone from blaster damage as everybody stilled, waiting…even Luke paused, panting as he stared through the haze.

The unit commander stood slowly from cover, his voice strong and clear and fearless. "Commander Antilles, I'm Sergeant Coric."

Luke waited, still breathing heavily. He knew the man, by reputation rather than personally. One of the old guard, an original template Clone who'd been around since the Clone Wars.

The trooper squared his shoulders. "Sir, we have standing orders to detain you on Lord Vader's command…I'm respectfully _asking_ you to stand down, Sir."

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He sensed it just a second later: the momentary, visceral fracture which flared to an expansion within the Force so wide and absolute as to lose cohesion entirely.

He'd sensed Jedi die before, of course. At his Master's hand, and at Vader's—and a few at his own, as he'd grown. But this was different; this was a quantum expansion of consciousness in the very same moment that it was snuffed from existence.

Luke flinched as it passed through him, thin and diffuse, suppressing a shudder both mental and physical.

The die that had been cast when the old man had arrived on Coruscant had finally fallen—as he'd known it would. A momentary regret took him, thoughts elsewhere, despite his own predicament…then his attention came back to the moment as he stared at the white armor about him, suddenly disinclined to continue.

To fight on was pointless, anyway; either Leia was long clear of the skyhook, and therefore any foolish act of revenge, or she was still here, and nothing that he did would stop her from returning to face Vader.

He straightened, letting his senses open out to encompass the entire skyhook…then the surrounding area…then beyond, searching for that now-familiar sense of pugnacious resolve. She wasn't there, already far enough away that for her to return now would be futile. He could have fought on; it would have been difficult but not impossible to get out of the bay and elude the troopers in a running fire-fight. It was what he'd trained for his whole life; to fight…in his Master's name.

Only this wasn't. And even if he got away with minimal injuries, he'd eventually have to return to his Master and answer for himself, he knew that. In his final act of recompense to Kenobi, Luke straightened and deactivated his saber, knowing that if he left now with the troopers, Vader would look to return soon afterwards, thus removing him from the skyhook in case Leia did return.

That was it; he was done. He owed the old man nothing more, for the truths he'd told. Perhaps he'd owed him nothing anyway; the knowledge certainly wouldn't make Luke's life any easier—if it was true at all. As he'd warned Kenobi, it had changed nothing—the old man was still dead, and Luke was still here, facing down the barrel of a blaster, at Vader's order. And he had yet to answer to Palpatine.

Taking Luke's inaction as compliance, the Group Captain walked forward, lifting his hand. "Your lightsaber please, Sir."

Luke glanced down to the lightsaber that he still clutched…then held it out to be taken. Veteran that he was, Captain Coric didn't relax his guard, just because he'd taken the weapon from a Sith. "We have instructions to escort you back to the palace. I have to ask you to return in the troop carrier, with us, until we can verify ongoing orders."

In contrast to his wary deference, the remaining stormtroopers about the Group Captain advanced with weapons aimed, widening their half-circle to guarantee multiple lines of fire. Luke wondered briefly how many blasters he could deflect at once…but it was immaterial now. Instead he smiled at the blank white façade of the trooper's helmet. "Well, I was heading that way anyway."

One of the troopers pulled out a set of binders and Luke looked at them briefly, then back to the Group Captain. "No," he said in calm refusal.

For a moment the standoff held, while the Captain weighed his options…then he half-turned to his comrade. "That's okay, trooper. We were told to take him back, that's all. Sir?"

He stepped aside to gesture to the waiting transport, and the surrounding troopers who were still capable of standing pulled back and rearranged to clear a path, blasters still raised and trained.

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Luke sat in the rumbling, clattering discomfort of the troop carrier, surrounded by watchful troopers and trying hard to resist the urge to check the pocket of his jacket, where he'd stowed the vial. No one had searched him…despite their loyalty to Vader, no one was entirely sure what was going on here and Luke was sufficiently highly placed that the unit Captain had wisely decided they'd do their duty with the minimum of ruffled feathers.

Luke sighed as he glanced down, unable to even begin to process what Kenobi had said. Nor should he. It was surely more likely that Kenobi had lied than it was that his Master had. Vader never had been and never would be anything more than an undisguised and unapologetic enemy—Luke's situation right now underlined that.

He looked again about the transporter, aware of many wary minds…and it brought home to him just how completely and utterly this had gone wrong. He'd had a plan before, an intention. It wasn't perfect and it wasn't popular, but it had incorporated within it both Luke's and his Master's wishes. He would confront his _father_, Kenobi, say what he'd intended to say, do what he'd intended to do, and then bring the body of the dead Jedi who had eluded his own Master for so long, back to the palace. He would have finally had the answers he needed, his Master would have had Kenobi…and Luke would have been the one to bring him in, a gesture hopefully big enough to buy him immunity from his Master's ire, that Luke had disobeyed him in going after Kenobi in the first place.

It had a downside, in that it wouldn't have mitigated Palpatine's wrath entirely, but he knew that it would have been sufficient to make it uncomfortable, rather than unsurvivable—and that was a price that he'd been willing to pay.

Now—now, he had nothing. Worse, because of Vader's involvement, his Master would know that Luke had disobeyed, in seeking Kenobi out. And if everything Kenobi claimed was true, then the faux-pas Luke had committed in disobeying his Master was dangerous bordering on catastrophic.

Luke's eyes skipped across the beveled flooring of the troop transporter, sheer desperation forcing his mind to race, dragging logic together under pressure, as he'd been taught week after month after year in preparation for a life in his Master's service. Willfully ignoring the fact that this situation was anything but.

Facts; what were the real facts? That was what he'd had drummed into him; you worked with the facts, not with assumptions. How much could his Master actually know, about what had happened tonight? Luke had been careful—very careful. He'd known the risks, even with his abandoned plan in place. He closed his eyes, mentally running through the information that each person had; himself, Vader, and Palpatine. In _fact_, Palpatine would know only what Vader told him—and Vader would tell the Emperor all he knew, immediately—but how much could Vader know? He'd been confident enough to bring stormtroopers, but nothing more—and he would have done, if he'd had advance confirmation. He would have made this into a show that Palpatine would have had to sit up and take notice of. And how could he know more in advance—even Luke hadn't known Kenobi was coming here! Plus, Vader had zero knowledge of what had happened before he'd arrived at the storage bay door; who was there, or for how long. All of Palpatine's knowledge of the situation would rely on Vader's, which was clearly limited, and on Luke's retelling of his version of the facts, which his Master would _expect_ to be contrary to Vader's; they always were. Luke and Vader were at constant loggerheads, they'd always argued and contradicted.

How much could Luke work around that?

He moved in his seat, uncomfortable at the thought. But the _fact_ was, he knew now that he could…he could lie to Palpatine. His system clear of spice, he'd looked his Master in the eye in the early hours of this morning and done so. And he could do it again tonight, if he had to; he could lie to his Master.

Luke brought his hand to his mouth, chewing at his thumbnail, unable to think of it in those terms—he couldn't afford to and he didn't need to. This was about Vader wading in and thinking he had the upper hand. It was about Kenobi disclosing knowledge that he knew—he _knew_ was too dangerous to ever repeat; Luke had worked that out already.

He glanced about at the straight-backed stormtroopers, angry for allowing himself to end up in this situation. Furious at Vader, for instantly pushing to take advantage of it. Fuming with Kenobi, who had put him in this position in the first place…and he hesitated. Because that was what he needed to be—angry. At Kenobi, at Vader. Anger could get him through this. He needed to hold on to his resentment of Kenobi, because it was something that his Master would understand. Compassion, pity, forbearance…they were not things he'd ever felt for Kenobi, so if he went into his Master's presence now harboring such thoughts, he'd instantly condemn himself. What smoldering strands of regret he felt now, he had to shut away. He couldn't afford such shows of weakness.

Slowly, as he looked for any angle, determined as ever not to give Vader this victory and knowing that his Master would anticipate that—would expect Luke to be fuming at Vader's actions—a new plan formed: damage limitation.

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To be continued…..

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	24. Chapter 24

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

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Palpatine remained silent as Antilles was marched into his audience chamber by an armed guard of twelve troopers, the boy's sense tightly locked down, though a smoldering ember of indignation flickered steadily. Yet physically he exhibited every possible sign of one knowing he was in the wrong, his head down, lips pursed, avoiding his Master's eye. It wasn't the first time that he had been dragged before Palpatine with a stormtrooper escort in the early hours of the morning, nor the first time that it had been at Lord Vader's order…but the facts—what few had come out already from the fleeting report by the stormtrooper captain—were exceptional.

The stormtroopers came to a parade-perfect halt before the dais, taking one perfectly synchronized side-step to open up about the prisoner in their midst, then snapping their heels in a smart salute. Antilles hesitated a second, then stepped down onto one knee, his slight form almost lost amid the ranks of armor as he said nothing, keeping his head low.

"His lightsaber," Palpatine said levelly without looking from the boy.

The Stormtrooper captain marched forward to stop at the edge of the dais and place the saber on the floor at Palpatine's feet.

"You are dismissed," Palpatine said with barely a glance to the trooper captain. Recriminations and reprisals were not for outsiders.

He waited until they had wheeled about and left, the door which opened briefly into the outer chamber framing a sea of fascinated faces. Midnight was hours past, and though Court had been discharged only slightly earlier than usual, any who had the wherewithal to have earned a place for themselves here, wouldn't be so stupid as to simply leave without first finding out just exactly what had caused the Emperor to dismiss Court in the first place. Viscount Indo was among them, Palpatine knew, having been roused from his bed when the first report had come in from one of Vader's 501st units requesting a landing in a secure bay and citing the prisoner they'd been ordered to bring in. Indo had apparently been unaware that the boy was even gone…perhaps his efficacy was no longer as great as Palpatine had assumed.

The stony silence held for long seconds as Palpatine studied his advocate, still kneeling, head down. When he finally spoke, he made sure there was no hint of allowance in his voice.

"I awarded you the privilege of carrying a lightsaber just weeks ago…and this is how you acknowledge that honour—by turning it on Imperial troops." The boy at least had the decency to remain still, head down, knowing that his Master's opening salvo was not yet done. "I am told that in the last few hours, you left the palace without my permission and entered a property held by Lord Xizor, with neither my nor his approval. Would you care to explain yourself? Or perhaps you would prefer to start with why exactly Lord Vader felt it necessary to order stormtroopers to detain you when you did so, and why you chose to evade them like a common criminal, subsequently placing fourteen of them in the medicenter and three in the morgue."

The boy stood, a little of that fire flaring. "They came after me!"

Palpatine released a swift Force-blow which knocked him back two staggered steps, more for effect than anything else. "Don't _ever_ raise your voice at me! Why did you kill my stormtroopers?"

"They weren't acting in your name—Vader was directing them, and they were interfering with an ongoing action on your behalf!" There was a lot of bluster in the boy's words, and a little desperation, too. A twist of guilt.

Palpatine narrowed his eyes. "Namely?"

Before Antilles could reply the tall double doors burst open and Lord Vader strode into the room, his satisfaction rolling before him unchecked—as did his intention to accomplish more to feed it, given the opportunity. He didn't even bow in acknowledgement to Palpatine as he walked forward, his attention on Antilles alone.

At least the boy had the good grace to react, all other emotions drowned beneath his outrage at Lord Vader's disrespect. Everything about him changed with Vader's arrival, his whole demeanor veering from uneasy apprehension to hostile belligerence, eyes narrowing as he turned more fully to Vader, his body taking on a martial stance.

Without hesitation Vader threw something across the room at head-height, aimed for the boy. A small cylinder little more that two hands in length, it caught the light in a brief flash as it arced across the room, instantly recognizable to all present. Antilles made no move to catch the lightsaber hilt, simply twisting aside so that it continued on to hit the wall behind him, then bounced back across the polished marble floor of the dais to clatter slowly down the gilded steps in a flare of reflected light, coming to rest close to the boy's feet.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead." Vader's words, spoken with a taunting finality, were clearly aimed far more at the boy than at Palpatine himself, though they still had the power to fire a wave of undisguised pleasure which lifted Palpatine's lips in delight, both at the removal of the last Jedi, and in anticipation of what the boy's reaction would be.

Before him, Antilles remained still and straight, face hardening at the knowledge of his _father's_ demise, though nothing else was readable beneath already raised shields. He didn't bother to look to his Master for support, knowing from long experience that he'd get none. But then it seemed he didn't need it.

"Congratulations, Lord Vader—you killed an old man." Antilles glanced momentarily down at the lightsaber as he spoke, completely dismissive. Whatever reaction Vader had hoped to prize from him, he clearly had no intention of obliging.

"I killed a Jedi Master," Lord Vader growled. "After you chose to walk away leaving him alive."

Palpatine's head moved slowly back to Antilles, fury quieting his words to a hissed whisper. "You were with Kenobi?"

Antilles turned, eyes wide, the reason for his earlier anxiety now clear. It was Vader who spoke though, bass voice triumphant.

"He fled when my troops arrived at the skyhook that they'd chosen to meet on, in hope of hiding their transgression."

For a split-second Antilles tilted his head as his lip curled at Vader in provocation, then he turned back to Palpatine, speaking quickly. "I was there just minutes before Vader, and I'd gone for the same reason—to bring Kenobi in."

"And how did you know to go there?" Vader challenged.

"I didn't," Antilles stated flatly as he turned to Vader, defending from two fronts now. "You were following me, you know I didn't go straight there. I was being led around, trying to make contact with him."

"And how did you know to even try?"

"Because this was an operation months in the planning! Months, to get them to trust me! And then you wade in and destroy the whole thing, splitting them up and forcing me to try to go after his accomplice. I didn't _walk away_, I tried to salvage what you'd ruined, only to be rounded up by your troopers and dragged back here, letting her escape!"

"A planned operation which you chose to say nothing about?" Palpatine interceded with quiet menace.

The boy turned back, finding some degree of deference at the tone of his Master's voice. "It was barely more than a follow-up to the Sinto spy, Master. The contact was the same Rebel agent who provided the first link to the listening post in the Auril Sector—I didn't bring her in at the time because I thought I could use her again, to gain other information. Then when I realized she knew Kenobi, I began to wonder if I could use her to draw him out. But it was scarcely past its initial stages! Kenobi coming here was without warning and completely unexpected."

Palpatine remained silent, eyes hooded, and the boy spoke out again, fighting to hold his nerves in check.

"She contacted me tonight to say that she wanted to meet, so I went. I hadn't expected her to bring Kenobi—hadn't expected him to be fool enough to come to Coruscant, let alone the Palace District. I was already heading to the meeting place thinking I was meeting her alone, when she moved its location—and again. When she finally showed herself, she said Kenobi was here and wanted to speak there and then…so I went along with it, intending to arrange to meet again. For the second meeting, I would have pushed to have it at a time and place of my choosing. Even if I hadn't had the opportunity to name the location, we would have been aware and prepared, and if I did, we could have mobilized any amount of troops. You could have been there yourself, concealed, waiting…" Antilles stepped forward. "It would have worked!"

Palpatine ignored all of the last, remaining with the relevant point. "You didn't try to comm security forces, when you realized whom she was taking you to meet?"

"My comlink is still in my quarters—Indo will tell you that—I knew she'd check, and tell me to leave it."

"And do you do everything she asks?"

The boy straightened, knowing he was at fault, but still fighting his corner. "I didn't want to give her reason to distrust me—I didn't think she'd bring him yet…didn't know if she ever would! By the time I knew what was going on I was already with her, and would have lost the opportunity entirely if she'd even suspected anything. She'd already taken no chances, moving me from place to place so she could watch from a distance to make sure I had no tail."

Palpatine remained unmoved. "You have other ways to contact me."

"Not with her." He glanced down, and for a second seemed to hesitate…then looked back to his Master. "Kenobi's trained a padawan."

Palpatine straightened on his throne, all lesser acrimonies forgotten beneath this new threat. "To what degree?"

"I don't know—sufficient that none of us knew she was here." He looked back to Vader, his nerves instantly lost as his voice raised in angry accusation. "I would have learned more, but Vader burst into the skyhook like a rabid nek, so Kenobi and his padawan split up. I had to make a choice, so I left Kenobi to go after the woman, because I knew Vader would head straight for Kenobi—in fact I doubted that Vader had even sensed the padawan yet—had you!"

"And how did _you_ know?" Palpatine asked coolly and quietly.

The boy turned. "What?"

"You just said yourself that none of us had identified Kenobi's padawan…yet you knew not to use the Force to contact me. How?"

"I didn't—not at first. When we met I reached out to touch her, to use a Force persuasion…and I knew then."

"What persuasion?"

Antilles hesitated—but it was genuine; an attempt to recall detail under pressure. "To convince her to meet me again."

Vader twitched straighter, instantly grasping the opportunity. "Without your Master's knowledge!"

Antilles rounded on him. "As part of an ongoing operation!"

"One which you took upon yourself to conduct without permission."

Palpatine remained silent, allowing Vader and Antilles to argue; many a slip was made in the heat of such arguments, and the wary deference which each held for their Master was non-existent with each other. Already the boy's voice was rising in accusation.

"So you're claiming that you tell the Emperor every detail of every part-fulfilled mission? What about the action necessary to retrieve the Death Star plans, lost from the _Tantive_—did you explain those? Or the details of just how exactly you let them fall back into Rebel hands?"

Vader's head tilted threateningly, but his silence bought Antilles sufficient time to turn back to Palpatine, residual anger at Vader lifting his voice as he near-shouted at his Master in his frustration. "This was my operation!"

Palpatine lifted his chin as his eyes narrowed, and the boy's tone instantly dropped from heated to deferential, though no less impassioned.

"It was mine, to give to you—to prove myself! You want proof that I'm ready to be a Hand, well this was going to be it. But it was barely anything yet, and I knew that if…if I'd told you any sooner you would have given control to Vader, and he'd do exactly as he did tonight—he would have waded into a situation with no time taken to prepare, and blow months of work wide open." Again Antilles turned to Vader, frustration raising his voice and whipping his courage and boldness instantly higher. "Months of work!"

Vader folded his arms with a creak of black leather. "Kenobi is dealt with, just the same. There was no need for all your _supposed_ planning."

"I drew him out of hiding!"

"You were plotting with him."

Antilles straightened, outraged. "With Kenobi? I had more of a reason to kill him than you ever did, you know that. But I put my duties first. I went there intending to bring him in. Killing him would have been a last resort if I believed I couldn't pull this off. And while you're so loudly accusing me of not taking this to my Master sooner, you might want to take into consideration the fact that neither did you, when you realized. I had a reason—an ongoing plan. What did you intend…or did you not think even that far in advance?"

Vader lifted a gloved hand to point acrimoniously. "You are muddying the issue with irrelevancies."

"Irrelevant? Well let's go for something of relevance, then. What did you intend to do about the second Jedi, who you completely ignored…or did you not know she was there?"

"Kenobi was the prime target."

"To you, maybe," Luke dismissed. "Tactically, _she_ was as great a threat; a trained Jedi, just coming into her own. But either you knew she was there and just let her go, in order to get to Kenobi, or you didn't even realize she was there at all. She was standing guard outside the storage bay as you closed in, and you didn't realize it—even that close, you didn't see it."

"She was cloaking her presence, as Kenobi was. As you were," Vader growled.

"Well then, how did you know where we were, Vader?" There was a triumph in the boy's voice, to Palpatine's ear; a sense of prevailing under pressure. "You want to explain the details of every mission…why don't you start with how you knew to come to the skyhook in the first place?"

Lord Vader was unimpressed. "You revealed your presence for a fraction of a second, that is all. Had I not been searching—"

"I was with two Jedi," the boy held, explanation enough. "When I realized you were close, I let you know where I was because I assumed that you'd surround the skyhook, summon reinforcements, set up perimeters… I didn't think you'd just come wading in because all you saw was Kenobi, and your own private vendetta! Which meant that_ I_ was the one who had to try to go after the woman. And when I actually got close, it turned out that no, the troopers you'd sent weren't going after her at all—you'd sent them after me! I was hauled up in the middle of the pursuit, and she got away, because you were _still_ working to your own personal agendas, Vader. I think that's pretty damn relevant, don't you?"

Again, Antilles looked to Palpatine for arbitration, seeking to put Vader on trial. It was rare that the boy raised his head above the crowd and actually tried a little maneuvering of his own, Palpatine knew, though he was more than capable. Equally reassuring was the fact that despite Kenobi's appearance on Coruscant, Vader had come in here with guns blazing, and Antilles had instantly and vehemently reacted.

It had always hung in the back of Palpatine's mind that one day, father or son may come face to face with Kenobi before Palpatine himself managed to dispatch the ageing Jedi. But when Vader had dueled Kenobi on the Death Star, it seemed that the old man had said nothing...and tonight too, Kenobi had withheld his secrets; both father and son had been in his presence—Lord Vader until the end—and judging from their actions right now, it had changed nothing.

Lord Vader took another step forward, his tone broaching no dispute, though his argument was with Antilles alone. "Kenobi was a Clone Wars General."

"I hate to break it to you, Vader, but the Clone Wars finished nearly two decades ago."

"He was one of the ringleaders of the Rebellion."

"He was an old man," the boy dismissed with curt surety. "But he at least had the foresight to know that he needed to train a padawan. New blood. New threats. We've had a string of incidents like the failure of Operation Strike Fear, the destruction of the Death Star, and now we have the appearance of Jedi on Coruscant, of all places—Coruscant! That's how confident they're getting, with new blood. _I_ went after the more relevant target."

"You went after the softer target."

"I left you with an old man," Antilles dismissed. "Remember, I was with him, however briefly. I saw how frail he was." Looking down to the abandoned lightsaber at his feet, he lightly kicked it across the floor toward Vader with the tip of his black-booted toe, as if it were unclean. "I should imagine you'll want to keep that. Proof that even in your pitiable state you're still capable of something, no matter how paltry."

Vader's back straightened and his chin lifted at the insult, his hand going unbidden to his own lightsaber, hanging at his hip—and the boy responded instantly with a half-turn, a subtle resettling of weight and balance as his hand lifted slightly towards the dais. His saber, still at Palpatine's feet, lifted cleanly and launched into his outstretched hand, landing perfectly positioned so that his thumb rested lightly on the activation toggle, though his eyes hadn't once left Lord Vader.

"Oh please," Antilles stated, voice dripping a dry dare. "Go ahead."

Vader's helmeted head turned just slightly to the throne. Palpatine waited in silence, dry lips pulled back in anticipation, wondering how far either would take this unexpected challenge…and the boy spoke out knowingly.

"Looking for a little backup…or an excuse to back down?"

That brought Vader's eyes back to him, sense seething. "If you want me to teach you yet another lesson then I am more than willing to do so."

It was a subtle reminder; an underlining of their relative status in the past, when Vader had harried and tormented the boy ceaselessly, his strength and skill far superior to the still-growing child.

But their last practice session, which Palpatine had studied as a holo with great interest, was proof of the combatants' changing status. Because the truth was that the boy was no longer a boy, and they both knew it. Antilles was fast and he was agile, and despite Vader's superior strength, in that last duel it had been Antilles who had scored the first potentially mortal strike—and they both knew that, too.

Palpatine grinned wickedly at the boy's confidence that he could bring Lord Vader down in a fair fight. Not that it would ever be that, between Sith.

Both remained still, tensed to react, neither willing to make the first move which could incur the wrath of their watching Master, but both so very eager, as ever, to fight…

Then something unprecedented happened. The boy—the boy, who had spent his life training towards this—straightened, letting his hand drop to his side with an agitated flick. He didn't back down; Palpatine could sense that. This was something else entirely. Some uncertainty which sparked, unreadable, at the very core of him.

He turned his back on Vader to face Palpatine fully, voice lowered, though it labored with forced restraint. "With your permission, Master, I have duties. The trail on the woman will likely be cold by now, particularly since Lord Vader chose to come here to throw accusations instead of going after her, but it should be checked."

Palpatine narrowed his eyes, aware that Antilles' words were probably no more than an excuse to be gone…but he nodded in allowance, aware that the confrontation was spent.

The boy bowed and retreated, and by the time that he was through the door, Vader too was making his excuses, eager to follow, his anger at Antilles' counter-accusations clearly not yet spent.

"Kenobi's body?" Palpatine asked.

Vader paused a fraction, his unease palpable. "Gone."

"Gone?"

It was rare that Lord Vader was at a loss for words, but he glanced aside, agitated. "Disintegrated…evaporated. It lost cohesion, at the moment of his death."

Palpatine nodded slowly, understanding now the brief sense of expansion that had bloomed out into the Force earlier. "There have been…theoretical techniques intended to maintain one's consciousness intact, upon death." He had himself studied them in various holocron, though his objective was not simple cohesion of spirit. No, he had a more pragmatic and corporeal goal. "I had thought that such techniques were Sith alone. It seems that perhaps the Jedi, too, sought and found a path." He allowed himself a brief smile. "A pity, then, that their lack of ambition meant that they perfected too little and too late, to save their kind."

Vader's chin tipped slightly as the low light of the massive chamber slid in abstract lines across the facets of his faceplate, and Palpatine straightened, briefly studying his own words, though he found nothing too telling in them.

Still, he was relieved when Lord Vader sought to move the conversation on. "And the woman?"

"One last challenge, my friend…though it appears that you'll be hard-pressed to beat Antilles to her."

Lord Vader braced at the unspoken challenge, and Palpatine excused him, well aware that Vader would seek to bait Antilles further tonight, though based on the boy's unexpected step-down, Lord Vader would not likely fire any reciprocation.

Alone again, Palpatine reflected on the night's events. Kenobi, the thorn in his side for the knowledge he possessed, was finally gone—at Lord Vader's hand, no less. Better still, the same blind antagonism that had always existed between Vader and his son clearly remained, meaning that the old Jedi had taken his secrets to the grave.

So all had transpired to Palpatine's advantage…save for the woman. He narrowed his eyes in thought, nails scraping across the carved armrests of his throne as his fingers tightened slowly to fists. An unexpected complication, and one that should be removed with all haste—though it seemed that Antilles was already looking to achieve just that, in his Master's name. Perhaps to make amends for his failure tonight…though it seemed that wouldn't have been that, had Lord Vader not intervened.

His thoughts went to the boy's earlier nervousness which, given the night's events, may have caused Palpatine reason to doubt…but Antilles' willingness to reveal Kenobi's padawan, and his glaringly obvious flare of antagonism when Vader had arrived, both served to allay Palpatine's fears that the boy had spoken in any depth with Kenobi.

And what did Kenobi gain anyway, by telling them? True, father and son might conceivably consider treachery, to topple their own Master…but what did that gain Kenobi? Perhaps his silence was because he knew that to instigate such a path would have placed a two-headed serpent on the Imperial throne—one of incredible power, if Lord Vader's willful drive was backed by his son's burgeoning abilities, which Kenobi would surely have sensed the moment he'd met with the boy. Certainly Palpatine had always seen the potential in holding the boy's loyalty, to exploit such abilities for himself.

And that loyalty would now remain forever, any possible revelations permanently locked away, thanks to his own father's actions. Palpatine leaned back, allowing a private grin to twitch his lips; yes, a most profitable day, indeed.

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Luke walked the outer Presence Chamber without once looking to either side, heart pounding, fearing any moment that he'd be recalled, as his Master often did, allowing the promise of escape before summoning him back. For a second, he sensed a familiar presence in the crowded, milling chamber...but he walked quickly on, head down. The moment he was clear he picked up his step, knowing that Indo wouldn't rush to follow, but would feel obliged to make his way at a stately pace, as he always did.

He took a side corridor in avoidance, and another; a flight of steps down, until he was in the silence of an empty hallway, the hour well after midnight, its tall stone-clad walls echoing his footsteps…and finally, he slowed, dragging his hands through his hair as he came to a stop.

He chewed compulsively at his thumbnail, mind skipping back over the answers he'd cooked and combined from memories and earlier intentions, in his attempts to maintain a cohesive whole. He'd tried so hard to answer every question and not to lie outright, but they'd come thick and fast from two directions, and in that moment, tired and under fire, he couldn't be sure… Except that if he'd made even one error in there, his Master would surely have taken him apart without hesitation or mercy.

He couldn't do this, couldn't maintain the charade—and he'd yet to write a debrief. To lock down the vagaries he'd juggled on the spot, or have the report returned as imprecise. He chewed at his thumbnail again, mind searching for an excuse to be gone from the palace until this blew over. The Shield X project had come under the Ubiqtorate's attention recently, after the loss of one of its modified corvettes. Its research installation was far enough out beyond the Core systems that to take the case on would get Luke…

He paused, blanching for a second, then straightened resolutely as Vader ascended the staircase behind him to stalk forwards, intent clear.

Glancing just briefly at the escape of the empty corridor before him, Luke turned to face his opponent for one more round. As ever, Vader didn't prevaricate.

"I know that you spoke to Kenobi."

"Of course you do, I admitted it in front of the Emperor."

"What did Kenobi say?"

Luke hesitated. "…What did he say to you?"

"Nothing—nothing of worth," Vader dismissed without hesitation.

Luke nodded, unsure whether Kenobi had tried to tell Vader or not. Either way, it seemed the lines that were long-since drawn still held fast.

He'd lifted his hands to rub at his eyes before his numb mind even registered how vulnerable it must have made him look, and he tried to turn it into an expression of exasperation, though he didn't know how convincing it was. "You're welcome to read my debrief, when it goes onto the system."

"Because of course, it will tell the truth."

Luke raised his head. "More than yours ever do—or did I miss something when I read the report that you filed on Kenobi's escape from the Death Star?"

"That report was classified."

"I have clearance. Interesting, that the security images weren't available from the bay itself, where you dueled Kenobi."

"Unfortunately lost, with the destruction of the Death Star."

"The bay security images were _lost_ before that—I checked, when I was onboard the Death Star." Luke held his ground as Vader stared in menacing silence, aware that even a sliver of weakness on his part would be mercilessly attacked. "I also noted that the troopers who were on duty in the bay, guarding Kenobi's shuttle, were all 501st."

"I would use no less."

Luke nodded, stony-faced… "I backtracked, when we were travelling to Yavin. There were images from the general security grid available, which registered the Rebel pilot's escape through the station's corridors…and I know what Kenobi's padawan looks like." In the precarious silence that followed, Luke chose his words with care, though his tone remained hostile. "Sometimes even you benefit from my not telling every detail, Lord Vader…remember that."

"I owe you nothing," Vader spat decisively.

"Really? Then you want me to go and tell the Emperor what I saw—that the accomplice who sprang the Rebel pilot from the Death Star's detention center looked remarkably like Kenobi's padawan…"

"The padawan is mine to dispose of," Vader growled.

"And why would your withholding knowledge of her existence threaten that? Or were you actually considering another alternative…a replacement for Galen Marek, perhaps," Luke pushed.

Vader leaned forward to loom threateningly over him. "What have you been whispering?"

"To Palpatine? Nothing. But I'll tell you this: he doesn't trust you already, I know that…and it would take very little to play on it. Like your undisclosed knowledge of Kenobi's padawan, perhaps."

He turned his back on Vader to start walking, not wanting to stay for yet more snipes and counter-threats, though he was well aware of the knife-edge he walked.

"This buys you nothing!" Vader shouted after him.

Luke didn't slow; didn't react at all, save a quarter-turn of his head, insufficient to actually look to Vader, his thoughts more on his own actions.

Because he should have said all of that in the presence of Palpatine. He'd come so close, using it to silence Vader, but then not following through with the threat. He could so easily have deflected the blame further from himself and put Vader squarely in the spotlight…so why hadn't he? He pursed his lips as he turned the corner to leave his adversary behind, doggedly refusing to look too closely.

Then again, to withhold it to throw in Vader's face privately had been useful; he now had leverage, and Vader knew it—which might just buy Luke a little space, for a short while. Because he _would_ use it, if pushed; no matter what, he'd still use it—and Vader knew that.

He walked on mechanically, so tired now that he closed his eyes to do so, his body crying out for sleep, even as his mind raced. He clicked his fingers distractedly against his thumbs as he walked, aware of how much he needed spice, too. How much he needed that distraction. But he simply couldn't afford it right now.

Instead he laughed briefly, amused at the irony that Vader had unwittingly saved Luke's hide tonight. Just moments into his audience with the Emperor, Luke had already begun to waver. Already begun to falter, beneath those sharp ochre eyes. But Vader's appearance, and his obvious intent to try to use all of this to bring Luke down, had galvanized Luke's resolve, and he'd pulled his wits about him and aimed the rest of his claims squarely at Vader. Everything that he'd said had been to Vader, every manipulation of the truth that he'd pulled out had been specifically to counter _him_. It had gotten Luke through, when he'd been unable to look into his own Master's eyes.

Again he slowed, walking with leaden steps to the side of the empty hallway to lean against the massive slab of dark granite, cool against his forehead and cheek. Adrenaline waning, his skin stung from a myriad of fine cuts and grazes, and his limbs ached from the strain of the brief, brutal battle. Exhausted, he lifted his hands to wipe at his eyes…and paused, holding them out; they trembled, despite his clenching them to fists.

This had to stop. It all had to stop. He'd lied to his own Master—lied to his face!

After a long, fraught day of revelations, lies and losses, of being backed into corners, of being so close to the truth—to all the answers that had been withheld—and seeing it snatched away forever…of being forced to lie to his own Master, he knew himself that his composure was cracking. He was tired and he was weary and he wanted it all to just go away.

But now he had to face Han. He'd faced Palpatine and he'd faced Vader, and now he had to face Han, and keep it all together. Because he knew that the one person whom he didn't want to lose through all of this, was the one who was slowly, increment by increment, moving away.

Still leaning his head against the cool of the granite slabbed wall, as if to turn his back on the galaxy, Luke thought for the first time on what had been scratching at the back of his thoughts for hours: Han.

"_I'm not going anywhere, I've told you that."_

And he had—repeatedly. For some reason that Luke couldn't even begin to fathom, he'd genuinely meant it—at the time. Even when his loyalty to the Empire had begun to slip, he'd meant what he'd said to Luke…at the time.

Now…maybe it would turn out that he'd found someone who didn't cause him the constant grief, frustration and disappointment that Luke just naturally seemed to cause everyone, no matter whether he tried or not. Maybe it would be for the best, anyway. Luke had never in his entire life meant anything to anyone. He laughed sourly as he straightened to walk on; not even Kenobi, as it turned out.

Why should Solo be any different?

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.

He keyed the code when he reached Han's apartment and trudged inside, knowing he was waiting. Han turned from pacing the floor and walked quickly to him, all concern…now, when everything was over. When Leia Skywalker was safely away.

"You need to calm down," Luke said as he entered, surprised at the composure in his own tired voice. At least Han'd had the good sense not to try to come barging after Luke when he was still with the Emperor. "I picked you up six levels away."

He wondered now why he'd come here—he hadn't even thought about returning to his own apartment to sleep, he'd just come straight here, from the audience with Palpatine.

"You okay?" Han walked forward, arms lifted, and for a moment Luke thought that Han was actually going to try to grasp his shoulders—but he halted. "I wondered what the hell had happened to you. Gorn said you were with the Emperor."

"I was," Luke said numbly.

"What did he say?"

"Doesn't matter. You got her away?"

"What? Oh, Leia? Yeah, I left her at the edge of the Shades, headin' back to Chewie, at their scoutship."

It was so easy for Han to be dismissive now, Luke knew, when she was safely away. He wondered calmly at what point it had occurred to Han to even think of what had happened to him, left with four units of stormtroopers on his tail.

"She said she'd comm," Han added, leaning closer in realization. "You're covered in nicks and cuts. What the hell happened?"

"Nothing. She didn't know, when you left her?"

"Know what?"

"Kenobi's dead."

Han stared for long seconds. "I'm…I'm sorry."

Luke turned to take a step towards the window, staring out into the Coruscant night in an attempt to distance himself from the unguarded emotions which accompanied Han's simple, sincere words. Instead, he let his eyes and thoughts be taken by the distant flow of traffic, a gliding stream of ever-moving light. So much that he'd been sure of had been pulled away too quickly, leaving him raw and bruised, with no idea of how he should react, when his Master had been so delighted, and yet Han was so appalled.

The silence hung until Han moved uneasily. "How?"

"Vader, of course. What did you think would happen if he tried to face off against Vader?"

"I thought…I thought he was just buying us some time."

"He was. Buying Leia time."

Han hesitated. "He knew, didn't he?"

Luke didn't turn. "Of course he knew."

"You did too."

A brief surge of guilt flared within Luke, and on its back a flash of anger at himself. He owed the old man nothing—he'd already repaid him for what truths he'd told, in risking his own hide to get Leia Skywalker away, and having to come back here to face his own Master, knowing he was in the wrong. Being forced to lie…

"He didn't come to kill you," Han took a step closer, speaking the words as if they were some great revelation.

Luke half-turned, distracted. "What?"

"Kenobi. He didn't come to kill you when you were eleven years old. He came to try to get you out."

Luke turned away, dismissive. "Who told you that?"

"Leia."

"And so of course you automatically believe her."

"Course I believe her, why wouldn't I? It makes a hell of a lot more sense than what old yellow eyes told you."

"Why, because it was her who told it to you?" There was a twist of raw resentment in Luke's voice which Han clearly didn't understand.

"No, just…I don't know. If Kenobi was so set on killing you, why didn't he try again?"

Luke turned abruptly. "If he was so damn set on helping me, why didn't he try that again? He knew where I was, why the hell didn't he try again!" There was fury as Luke yelled the last—and desolation. About him, every object that had built up on the cluttered surfaces of Han's small room lifted as one to slam back with force against the walls. Even Han felt it, a surge of unintentional pressure that made him blink involuntarily as he staggered a step back. Close by, a faceted glass bottle teetered on its base, then toppled and fell, shattering to fragments as the pale amber spirits spattered widely. Luke turned, eyes ablaze…and came back to himself, subdued, his gaze remaining on the broken bottle as everything in the room tremored to stillness.

When he finally looked to Han, his voice was a hushed whisper of bewildered regret. "Why didn't he come back?"

Han stared, his own voice muted. "Did you ask him that?"

"I didn't need to," Luke said quietly. "The reason was standing outside the room, speaking to you."

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Exhausted and strung out, Luke walked back to his own apartment as the first muted rays of dawn lit the horizon and softened the sharp angles of towering buildings, wanting tonight to be over. The memory that Kenobi was dead, killed by Vader, still gnawed at him. Only hours ago, it had been Luke's one blinding passion, to turn his blade on the father who had deserted him, and now…was this regret, at the old man's death?

"_Congratulations, Lord Vader; you've killed an old man."_ His own words played back in his head, because Kenobi had been just that: old and tired, weighed down by secrets and remorse. He hadn't deserved this. It had held Luke back long enough for Kenobi to speak…why hadn't it done the same with Vader?

But then why should it? Nothing held Vader back, ever. Nothing stayed his hand or tempered his anger. He'd told Kenobi that—warned him. Luke shook his head abruptly, fuming at Vader for his actions and Kenobi for his truths, and at the Fates that so constantly pummeled him!

Vader being his father was ridiculous! It was obscene! A trick or a falsehood or a mistake, or…his lips pursed to a thin line as logic lead him back through what must have happened to trigger Vader's presence there tonight, because it couldn't have been coincidence, and Luke knew damn well that he'd had too many shields in place and been hiding his own presence too well for Vader to have simply picked up on his intent before he left. That meant that it had been an outside agent who had given Vader the advantage, enabling him to follow Luke. He slowed to a stop in the wide, echoing hallway…because there was only one possible answer:

Ashtor—Ashtor had given Vader all that he'd needed to get to Kenobi.

The edge of a growl set on Luke's lips as he set forward again, adrenaline and anger pushing his dragging steps into a sprint, knowing Ashtor would be on duty until dawn; it was time for a reckoning.

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By the time he reached the main hall of his apartment, Luke saw Gorn already standing in the main corridor, his back to Luke as he spoke quietly to Ashtor, who still sat in the staffroom.

He didn't pause, didn't think, simply lifted his hand as he let out a yell—and Ashtor was hauled bodily up and back by the Force, his chair toppling away at the violence of the act before Luke was even fully in the room. As Ashtor slammed against the wall five feet from the ground Luke looked once to Gorn, eyes wild and bright. "Get out."

Silent and open-mouthed, Gorn backed quickly from the room, stumbling over the spilled contents of the desk.

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Han arrived at the apartment door running at full tilt, to see Gorn standing tensely in the stone-slabbed corridor outside.

Gorn's comm had come not long after the kid had left Han's quarters—so soon that Han had barely had time to wash his face, let alone consider actually laying his head down for even a minute's rest. Gorn turned, face pale, and a long scream cut through the air from within the apartment, breaking off to a breathless gasp.

Han set forward, and Gorn grabbed wildly at his arm, voice a hissed whisper. "No! Han, no, don't go in. Don't get involved. Only Indo can deal with this."

"He'll kill Ashtor." Han yanked free, knowing what was driving the kid, but Gorn grabbed him again, setting all his weight against Han's pull.

"Han—Han, listen to me! You can't step in, not when he's like this. Let Indo deal with it, he's on his way."

"Ashtor could be dead by then."

"Ashtor's dead anyway—about to be. You won't stop that, not when Luke's like this."

Han tore free and set forward, and Gorn took barely a step before breaking off, unwilling to follow, though he shouted a final warning.

It wasn't hard to guess where the kid was; a sheaf of hard-copy flimsiplast had fallen at the staffroom door to scatter out into the corridor beyond, unheeded. He rushed in, expecting to see Luke with his hands at Ashtor's neck…but it was something else entirely.

Body tilted awkwardly, pressed flat to the wall by an invisibly force as his legs kicked and scrabbled at the wall behind him like a trapped animal trying futilely to jerk free, Ashtor was struggling to bring his pinned arm forward to his face, where his nose and mouth bled profusely, a spattering of scarlet smearing the wall behind him.

"Luke!" It was half-shock and half-panic, both of which had stopped Han dead where he stood.

"Get out." Kid didn't even turn.

"Luke, listen to me…"

Luke's head snapped around, tipping slightly as it did so, something in the movement inhuman. "Get out! You couldn't even take an interrogation. You sure as hell won't want to see this."

Han shook his head. "Don't."

"You want to protect him—him?" To the far side of the room, Ashtor's whole body lifted away from the wall and banged back against it with sufficient force that Han felt it through the floor. The man let out a pitiful yelp, which fell to a gurgling rasp as blood rose into his mouth and he coughed it free. "It was Ashtor who gave Vader all the information he needed, like he always does. All of this is Ashtor's fault—all of it! Do you still want to protect him?"

Han felt his own fury well up, hands curling to fists…then stopped himself. It was a monumental effort, but he stopped short of Ashtor and turned level with Luke. "Just listen to me—"

"Why?" the kid demanded, every muscle taut, too wound up by anger to even begin to listen—but Han had to try.

"One day you're gonna understand. You're gonna see why you shouldn't do this, but for now…you're just gonna have to trust me."

"This is retribution," Luke growled, unyielding. "I'm entitled to that."

"Not now, when you're angry. Not like this. I know that what I'm asking makes no sense to you at all right now, and I know that I'm saying everything you've learned is wrong… but look back on all the time we've known each other and ask yourself this…have I ever lied to you—ever?

Han took a step past the wild-eyed kid…took another, to put himself in between Luke and the gasping Ashtor, a low groan escaping the battered man. "Just let this go. Wait. Please."

Still breathing heavily, wide blue eyes brighter than Han had never seen them before, the kid stared, furious. "Because of him, Kenobi's dead! The one link, my one chance at the truth—because of him, it's gone!"

"I know, I know that…but killing Ashtor isn't gonna bring Kenobi back, is it? Do you think he knew what Vader was gonna do? All he does is hand over facts, Luke. That's all. C'mon," Han soothed, "you've made your point, let it go. Walk away."

"Because of him, your precious Leia Skywalker was nearly another name on Vader's death list—d'you want to let that go too?"

Han kept his voice open and quiet. "No…but I don't want this on my conscience—not like this. And I don't think you do either."

The kid's head tipped forward threateningly. "Don't presume…because I don't give a damn about him."

"This isn't about him, it's about you. You're angry, I understand that, I do...but you'll never get this moment back, it will always be with you. You _cannot_ change it once it's done—even you can't do that. Do you want to have this death on your hands? Like this? What will it change, about what's already happened? Nothing. The only thing it'll change, is you." Han took a step forward, hands outstretched, though he knew better than to try to touch the kid, even in reassurance. "You gotta…Luke, you've got to get a handle on this, or you're gonna end up like Palpatine—you're gonna end up no better than Vader."

Luke faltered; immediately brought his head round to stare at Han, uncertainty flashing across his face, as if Han had said something profound. He blinked, and backed up a step, breaths coming heavy as he looked from Han back to Ashtor… Another step back, and Ashtor slid down until his feet touched the floor, collapsing forward as they did, so that the man fell into a crouch on his hands and knees, his whole body wracked by huge gasps as if he could suddenly breath freely.

Luke took another staggered step back and wheeled about, jaw grinding, his own chest rising and falling as he fought for control.

Han felt a moment of relief at having finally gotten the kid to back down…and Luke turned instantly to glare, clearly reading the play of Han's thoughts as Han shook his head, striving to get his point across and keep talking the kid down. "This is the right thing…just walk away. Walk out the door. C'mon…"

Ironically, he found himself making the same corralling motion that Indo used so often, arm out to usher Luke to the door without touching him…and Luke moved another step back. Head tilted, lips a thin, hard line—but doing it. Holding it together and walking away from a situation that Han knew damn well he would only ever have been taught that he had every right to act on.

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Still gasping, finally getting air down his bruised throat as he knelt on the floor, Ashtor grated quietly, "Bastard son of a Sith!"

And Han knew. He shouted out, lifting his arm—

Luke spun back, hand raising as his eyes locked onto Ashtor. It was instant, fast as the thought; Ashtor's head snapped violently back and to the side, twisting too far as his fingers clawed at nothing, eyes wide as a dense, wet, visceral _cr-ack_ sounded. Han flinched as Ashtor's whole body dropped limp in the same instant, hitting the ground in a tumbling thud of loose limbs, mouth wide in a shout that would never be voiced…

Han's shoulders went slack in defeat as he stared into the glassy, sightless eyes of a corpse, sprawled awkwardly on the cold floor. He turned to the kid, who stood frozen, hand still raised, eyes wide…and for a second, something showed in the flash of a frown on his face: revulsion, regret.

Then his eyes flicked to Han, and in an instant it was gone as he pulled back beneath that polished armor of cool indifference, lifting his chin in defiance as he glanced back to the corpse. "He's right, you know… Maybe I'm more like Vader than you realize."

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To be continued…..

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	25. Chapter 25

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**CHAPTER 25**

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Indo dealt with the removal of Ashtor's body with weary acceptance, when he arrived at the apartment just minutes after the event. In many ways, it surprised him that Ashtor had lasted as long as he had—the best part of a year here, despite Luke's knowledge. There would be no greater implications attached to the man's…demise. The Emperor knew that Vader had recruited Ashtor and had been waiting with rapt fascination to see when Luke would turn on him. He hadn't become involved of course, as he wouldn't now. It was an incident of contention between two Sith, and such things had always stood above any law save the Emperor's own commands, Indo knew. The fact that a third individual had been _involved_ was neither here nor there. Palpatine even encouraged such enmities, it seemed.

With the body removed and the apartment once again empty—Luke had stalked from the apartment immediately afterwards, it seemed, and Solo had of course gone looking for him, apparently unable to understand that the boy needed the dignity of time alone—Indo walked calmly down the main enfilade to the mirrored door. It snicked open as he neared, and he walked in without pause, passing through the two rooms which led to Luke's bedroom.

There was little to hint at the order that it had been returned to during Luke's time in the medicenter just a week earlier. Instead, the bed had once again been tipped onto its side and dragged across the floor into the corner, where the mattress had been dropped to the floor angled into the small space, to provide the sheltered hide that Luke still somehow needed to sleep with any sense of security. The walls remained mostly unmarked, but the first run of sketches had begun to trail out at sitting-height from the crumpled mess of the hide, and Indo paused to look. The same mix of old and new memories, a mind laid bare. Scattered among the new were those same familiar faces, already drawn five or six times, eyes wide in shock. Indo wondered idly what Luke would draw tonight, when he returned—which he would. There was no need for Solo to rush off after him, Luke would return in his own time. And there was certainly no need to address what had happened here, in Indo's experience; better to let it settle and be forgotten.

That Solo was surprised by any of this only served to underline his inexperience here, it seemed to Indo. There was nothing unusual about it, or about Luke's actions, given his upbringing here—though Solo would know little of that. Luke himself never spoke of his past, and would broach no mention of his formative years under Palpatine's attention—or lack thereof. Indo wondered, in truth, how little Luke remembered at all of his arrival here. How much the boy had locked away to come even this far, scarred as he was. Flaws too deep to ever remove entirely, he suspected.

And so he had made it his life's work to contain them; manage them. Provide the stability and the means for Luke to do the same himself, whatever it took. And sometimes one had to compromise in the present, to achieve long-term results. One had to allow a smaller lapse, to avert a greater one.

The way that Indo had dealt with, ignored or even fed certain of the boy's failings was not something he was proud of, but he was a pragmatic man, and high ideals were often the first thing which had to be surrendered to the realities of life—as Luke, too, knew. And even if he wasn't proud of the means, Indo was genuinely proud of the fact that he had brought Luke this far. Compared to that, any lesser compromises that he had been forced into, in order to attain these accomplishments, were valid. He lifted his hand, to look at the small box he carried; yes, he believed that absolutely.

At times, it had been difficult. With few rules save the ever-shifting demands of the Emperor, the young boy handed over into Indo's care had been precariously unstable, and as those demands had grown over the years, Indo had several times feared that the boy would crack under such unrelenting pressure. All that he could do was to try to maintain a constant background as counterpoint to the mercurial uncertainties which comprised the boy's time with the Emperor. Though Indo knew that even these—the long hours of endless lessons which were timetabled to fill every waking hour of Luke's life away from Palpatine's presence, to constantly push him academically beyond even the Emperor's expectations—were exacting a toll.

It had taken him a surprisingly long time to realize, when Luke had first started disappearing—months more, before the truth came out, and even then only when the boy's actions had put him in the medicenter. Spice had been at once the obvious explanation and deeply shocking to Indo. He'd spent so long, and invested so much in the boy; it was inconceivable that Luke should repay him like this.

There had been words, when he had recovered; accusations. No denials—if one thing could be said of Luke, it was that he seldom lied to those close to him. Perhaps because he'd been prey to so many himself; his whole life, his very identity, was wrapped about by them and he knew it. More likely because the Emperor had beaten even the contemplation of such a thing out of him long ago.

Despite being restricted to the Upper Ziggurat Luke had disappeared again, forcing Indo to send out search parties first into the palace, then farther afield. It was two days before he was found, unconscious and ignored in the back of a filthy cantina—a spice den in the deep-set shadows of The Shades. A longer spell in the medicenter was needed, and this time, it was impossible to hide the fact from Palpatine. But Luke was a fighter, and again, he'd made it through with hardly minor, but still correctable damage. And then he'd had to face the Emperor…and had spent another two nights back in the medicenter.

Yet Indo had known—he'd known, watching the boy when he'd returned, bruised and pale, to curl up in the huddle in the corner of his chaotic bedroom—that Luke would do this again. Because nothing had really changed. The same pressures existed—from the Emperor, from Vader…from Indo, in an effort to keep the boy of value to an Emperor who would doubtless remove him entirely, should he fail to excel.

With no control of the situation, and little control of the boy himself if his mind was set…there seemed, to Indo, only one place that he could intercede.

If he had control of the drugs the boy used, then he could at least ensure their quality and amounts. He could ensure that the source was reliable. He could stop the boy from resorting to squalid spice dens to buy suspect goods, and render himself insensible and vulnerable there for hours on end…and most important of all, he could regain control of a child who was, for the first time since he'd come into Indo's hands, beginning to look elsewhere to fill the gaping holes in his life.

It had seemed, therefore, the only logical course.

Whether it had been an error of judgment on Indo's part to feed such a condition remained to be seen. In the short-term, once Indo had investigated the subject and reliable and discreet suppliers had been sourced—every delivery medically checked, purity guaranteed—his control of the drugs had enabled him to manage quantities and times, releasing them only after Luke's studies were completed for the day. They became rewards for good behavior, incentives for conforming, commiseration when unfair ordeals were enforced or endured…and most importantly, a method of reinforcing the two's inter-reliance on each other.

They were, of course, never passed on directly or spoken of in even the most coded terms. At the time, Luke had still lived in rooms within the Emperor's vast apartments, and he knew as well as Indo did that Palpatine would have put an instant stop to any practice which turned even a fraction of Luke's attention from his Master.

The first few times had been awkward and clumsy, then. Indo had wanted minimal involvement, but the boy had soon learned, and needed little outward shows of intention on Indo's part, knowing to follow him at a distance onto one of the ziggurat roofs, or some other secluded spot where Indo knew Luke would be left alone. They were generally placed in advance, so that Indo needed only to pause for the boy to know where they were. He never stayed; never knew if the boy used them where they had been left, or took them elsewhere. He didn't wish to know. It became nothing more than a distasteful necessity.

When Luke had been awarded his own apartment, it had seemed the perfect answer. They were simply left, in regular amounts and at regular intervals, in his bedroom, and for a while Luke had regulated his own consumption with minimal involvement. In the last year that had devolved somewhat though, and with no larger amounts forthcoming from Indo, Luke had first taken to seeking out sources in the palace, then eventually out on the streets again. Palace contacts weren't too difficult for Indo to control; his position meant that it was all too easy to simply remove with extreme prejudice any who even considered supplying the boy with spice. Word circulated very quickly that the reaction would be zealous, and discouraged most from even considering it. Not that he ever spoke of this directly to Luke, nor did Luke ever bring his grievances directly to Indo, the long-established convention of never speaking on this remaining always intact.

Instead, of late, Luke had taken to simply disappearing into the city's lowlife sectors to buy it on the street again, a fact that was as unacceptable now as it had been in years past. If he found such unchecked spice Indo always destroyed it immediately, though he knew that eventually he would have to step in, as he'd always done, to ensure that the boy had all that he needed to survive here.

He knew too, of course, that what he was doing was…questionable, but it solved so much so easily. And it bought for Indo the one thing he had always feared that he would lose as the boy grew; it maintained the invaluable closeness which naturally eroded as any young mind matured and gained in self-reliance, ensuring that Luke would always come back to Indo above any other.

And when he did, Indo would continue to do as he had always done—what he had done since that terrified, traumatised child had first been delivered into his guardianship; he would hold Luke together, and he would push him forwards. Would be his strength and his ambition.

Because whilst the boy's harsh education with his Master had drained him of the latter, Indo had enough for both of them—and Luke alone had the abilities which would enable Indo to realize them. He'd taken the raw material and made of it all that he could, but it was the boy's innate abilities which would keep him forever in the Emperor's attention…and Indo would do, as he always had, anything that was necessary to maintain that.

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Crouching down, he placed the small, freshly filled wooden box on the crumpled blankets, making no move to straighten them—neither ever acknowledged to the other where the box came from—then rose to stare at the wall, making a mental note to ensure that that sufficient of the room's paint would be stored in stock for the coming year, before he turned to leave.

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Han was tired and tense, strung out by too many close calls and not enough sleep. He felt like the grime from this whole damn place had permeated his clothes to choke the pores of his skin, and he just wanted this to be over—more than anything else, he just wanted this whole mess to be over.

Knowing exactly where Luke would be, Han walked into the gloom of the apartment which the Organa's had once inhabited, his path lit by the open door behind him. As he neared the only open door in the musty corridor, early morning light filtered through the semi-lowered privacy blinds within. Han slowed to a stop, squinting in the shadows. That same dust-dulled darkness hung heavy on the soft edges of old, ornate furniture. That same smell of stale air and fresh spice.

Luke was sitting on the floor in that same spot just inside the door of this one room, his face half-hidden in the long shadows, an unlit spice stick held loosely between his fingers. "Don't—don't even start trying to tell me that I was in the wrong."

This time Han knew to stop at the door. He crouched down to Luke's level without mentioning the spice stick, working to keep his voice quiet and casual. "You think you did the right thing?"

The kid pursed his lips, scowling into the darkness of the musty room before he brought his arms up to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and Han sighed, looking down. "C'mon, you're tired. It's been a hell of a day, and this is the last place you should be."

"It's funny," Luke didn't make to move, voice hollow. "Bail Organa was the only one I ever really thought of as my… The only one I'd ever give that name to. Kenobi…I was too angry, too…"

_Betrayed._

He didn't say it; didn't need to. Han too had grown up alone, and alternately and vehemently cursed those who should have been there, then wallowed in abject guilt for doing so, torn by desperate longing. And he'd had no name, no divisive tales of rejection or abandonment.

The kid stared off into the shadows, eyes on the ornate chaise before that low oval table, so deep in dust that there was no indication as to what it was made of any more. Han sighed as he settled more comfortably, knowing what this place meant to the kid. "This is where you last saw them?"

"No. I saw them again. But this is where it happened," Luke said quietly. "This was the start of the end. And I did it myself…I did it all myself, as it turns out. I set it all in motion."

"Set what in motion?" He didn't expect an answer as the kid lifted his head slightly, his voice brighter and louder—but brittle, painfully vulnerable.

"She was wearing a blue dress…I could pick the exact color out, even now. Pale blue, but warm; opaline. I should have known, you see—I should have realized when I saw them walk to the speeder and she was wearing that pale blue dress…" He blinked, shaking his head quickly as he nodded towards the oval table. "I had paper and pencils, right there…I remember it so well." Luke rose to walk forward a few halting steps then stopped awkwardly, hand to the rolled arm of the chaise though he wouldn't quite touch it. "I was leaning here, drawing a picture of home…I was drawing us all there, but…I didn't have the right blue for her dress. I didn't have the right blue…"

So much was unspoken but painfully clear, and Han felt a surge of emotions rise up. "It wasn't your fault."

"They died because of me."," Luke said emotionlessly, completely sure. He stared into the shadows for a long time, then loosed a shallow breath. "I wonder…sometimes I think, did they care for me at all? Did they bring me here on purpose? Maybe they died because of a child they wanted rid of, anyway."

"Okay, listen to me, you gotta stop coming here to beat yourself up over this. There's nothing you could have done to change it."

"I should have found a way," Luke murmured, eyes on the shadows. "It was my fault—then and later."

"Luke, you can't take onboard every—"

"He did it for me," Luke said across Han's reassurance, voice perfectly even. "He said he did it for me—to make me strong."

A creeping chill crawled up Han's back in the somber shadows, as he remembered Luke's spice-fed confession months earlier. "Palpatine."

"He said they held me back, made me weak."

"So he killed them."

The kid shook his head slowly. "No, I killed them. Because I was weak, he said."

"You're not weak."

"I'm not Sith—not a true Sith." Luke turned to Han, the finality in his voice echoing his knowledge that this was all that had ever been expected of him. A stray shaft of light caught across his face as he loosed a self-deprecating smile. "Pale blue eyes."

"D'you really want to be like him?" Han asked. "D'you want to think that you could put someone else through all that he's put you through? Or that you could treat someone the way Vader treats you?"

The kid's eyes, still touched by that shaft of wan light, lowered as he frowned. Then he shook his head briefly, as if to dismiss a thought he couldn't even begin to deal with right now. "Palpatine gives Anakin the freedoms he never gives me. I've never earned them, he says."

Han frowned. "Who?"

"Vader's name," Luke said calmly as he walked back to that same spot by the door. "His given name…it was Anakin."

"I didn't think that guy had a first name."

"Maybe he doesn't any more," Luke said, fighting to keep his voice level as he dropped back into a crouch beside Han, turning the spice stick between his fingers as he stared at it…itching to light it, Han knew. "Maybe that's what you have to do, to become Sith; just…reject everything from your old life."

"He's already had you do that," Han said of Palpatine.

"He's ordered me to," Luke corrected—and Han realized, glancing back to the dust-encrusted silence of the musty room, just how much the kid was unable to let go—how helpless he was to change that, no matter what the command. "But when it came to that final test…I was weak."

"Test?"

"I didn't know. Didn't know that there would be one—didn't know what it would be." He looked to Han with a hollow smile. "Powder blue dress, which should have been black."

Han frowned; kid kept saying that…

"I let him down," Luke continued quietly, hanging his head. "I let them down." He brought his hand up again to rub at tired eyes. "I let everybody down, sooner or later."

"Palpatine tell you that?"

"If he could have separated the boy from the power, he would have done so long ago, I know that. I knew it by the time I was eleven—and Indo never hid it from me, either. He thought I should understand, that I deserved to know. But knowing it didn't mean that I had the slightest idea of how to change it…" Hunched in the near-darkness, Luke stared at the black-papered spice stick. "But I did know how to change myself."

"The spice," Han nodded.

"Spice," Luke confirmed, "that closes down your contact with the Force. Not completely, and just for a while, but it made me less in his eyes. Made my abilities erratic, unpredictable. Made me a less interesting proposition." The last Luke said with as close to distaste as Han had ever heard the kid speak of Palpatine.

"And how's that working out?" It felt low, to push the kid when he was this tired and pummelled by ever-escalating events, but there was something in his manner tonight, something that said he just might listen. "Never does, y'see. All that happens, is that it becomes part of the problem."

Luke scowled, eyes on the spice stick between his fingers as Han pushed on. "And that makes it my problem, too."

Kid lifted his head in confusion, and Han shrugged. "I told you before, I'm not goin' anywhere."

Luke stared for long seconds, then looked quickly away, bracing. "You should—leave, I mean. I shouldn't have let you stay this long." There was self-censure in his quiet voice.

"Why do you want me to leave?"

"Because I'm…I'm death to everyone around me, can't you see that? I always have been. The longer you stay, the greater the threat." He looked away again in to the shadows of the musty room, his mood darkening. "Ask Bail and Breha Organa."

"Indo's still here—though Sith knows, I've wanted to kill him a few times myself."

"Indo's different. He's here because Palpatine appointed him. Because he…he pulled me together, made me of use."

"Yeah, I can see how Old Yellow Eyes has let him stay, but what about you? That's the rule, isn't it?" Han said knowingly. "If they're serving Palpatine's interests, it's okay. But the next one is, you don't get attached. I know what you do—how you try to push everyone back…how come you let Indo in?"

The kid glanced away, tipping the spice stick end to end in a run between each of his fingers with practiced ease, his silence leaving Han to wonder what it was about Indo, that Luke didn't push him back in the same way. Was it simply familiarity…or some deeper tie?

"Besides, I got news for you, Kid," Han said, remembering the night when he'd quit and stormed out—and Luke had gone after him, because the kid couldn't quite bear to give up probably the only real friendship he'd ever known. "You're not goin' anywhere either. Like I told you, we're in this together." He raised his eyebrows, half in reproach, half in reassurance, as he reached out to take the spice stick and crumble it to nothing, unchallenged. "But you gotta stop doin' this. This is just another way to knock yourself down. It's amazing how quick it becomes that, isn't it? How fast something that once took it all away, becomes something that just adds to your daily problems."

Luke remained silent…but he hadn't walked away—so maybe, just maybe, he was listening.

"You can't keep on doing this, not you, because it'll eat you up, and you won't see it. You're all or nothing. You've had to be, just to survive here, I know that. I see it when you duel, I see it in the way you serve Palpatine—all or nothing. That's why you can't do this; you'll just slip down further and further, because that's how you are. How often every day do you think about it? Don't tell me, I don't want to know…I just want you to realize. How often do you think about your next fix, where to go, so you're not disturbed, what time—not too soon after food, or you'll be sick, and not too soon before, or you can't eat. Timed to be in between when Palpatine's likely to summon you, but so you can still get enough in, in one day, to stop withdrawal. When's the next batch coming, will it be enough? You need papers to roll it, stubs, somewhere to keep the extra stuff that you hide from Indo...what if there's something wrong with it and you need more, quickly? Timing out your day to what you need and your week to how much you've got left... It creeps in and takes over, and it sucks every strength out of you, because it becomes your life. But it'll only ever pull you down, because it's never enough—because you always want more…don't you? It doesn't deal with the problem, it becomes part of it, because when you're using it, you forget just how much you can do without it—what you're capable of." Han hesitated…

"_This_ is what keeps you here, because it makes it all manageable, when otherwise you'd do something about it. All it will ever do is hold you back. And I know that you were just tryin' to deal with something—and maybe it worked, for a while," Han allowed, not looking to add to the kid's already low opinion of himself. "But it doesn't any more, does it? If you ask me, that means it's time to leave it behind."

"And everything else…you want me to leave that behind, too?"

Han let out a brief laugh. "Be great if you did, right?"

Luke glanced down, his voice finding some of its lost certainty. "I can't."

It had been worth a try. "Well then, we'll work with the first one for now, huh? I'll tell you what'd be good though…" Han left a long pause, waiting until Luke finally looked to him before he nodded to the spice stick on the floor. "Screwing 'em up one at a time feels great, it really does...but aside from that floorboard in your room, I'd like to know where you're keeping it—cos I saw the size of that box an' I swear, most days you smoke more than would fit in it."

The kid tapped the tips of each finger against his thumb in turn, for want of something to hold, but Han let the silence hang… Finally, he admitted, "I get new most nights."

"You don't go out every night."

Kid glanced away, uneasy. "I don't need to."

The old medic Kalter's words, after he'd cleaned the kid up one more time in the medicenter, came to Han's mind: _"I can tell you for a fact that the day that he leaves, he'll be back on the spice. By the time he's back in his own rooms, he'll go looking for it—and he doesn't have to look very far."_

Han's eyes narrowed as his mind skipped, trying to connect the dots. In the palace, then—despite all of Indo's Draconian attempts to dissuade people, Luke was still getting it from someone in the palace. "Who is it?"

Luke lifted his hand to chew at his thumbnail as he seemed to consider for a long time, eyes on the floor, the slight lines which formed about them betraying deep uncertainty.

When he spoke it was so quietly that, though he'd heard the name, Han leaned in, uncertain. "Indo?" For a moment, it just wouldn't compute—wouldn't make sense, in Han's head. He'd surely misheard, or…

"_You don't repeat things, not around here." _Again, the medic Kalter's knowing words drifted into Han's thoughts_. "Not about people who have the power to make you disappear." _

"_How come you never do this in front of Indo?"  
"I don't know if you've noticed, but he likes it to be known that he officially disapproves." _

Luke's reply to Han, onboard the _Immortal_, took on a new significance—as did the kid's wary accusation of Kalter:  
"_So you're not the one who checks stuff for Indo, then?"  
"No, I'm not. I'm your medic, not his."_

Abruptly, the argument from long ago, when Indo had confronted Luke with a box of spice he'd found hidden in the kid's room, came clear… "_You searched my rooms."  
"If you didn't bring spice into the palace, I wouldn't need to do it."  
"Well aren't I the bad wolf."  
"I'm serious."  
"No, your nose is out of joint—there's a difference."  
"Where did you get it?"  
"I don't even remember. Some cantina, probably."  
"This could have anything in it!"  
"Please, don't feign concern. You're just worried your hold is slipping."  
"You know that this is unacceptable. It's dangerous and it's unnecessary, and it has to stop."_

The words played again, their meaning transformed. _""You're just worried your hold is slipping."  
"You know that this is unacceptable. It's dangerous and it's unnecessary, and it has to stop."_

"_It's dangerous and it's unnecessary…"_

"…_it's unnecessary…"_

Endless, ignored fragments came together to compress to a black fury which clamped Han's jaw and pulled every muscle tight. "…Indo…"

Luke straightened, suddenly nervous at the growl in Han's voice. "You can't tell anybody—if Palpatine found out…" He didn't finish; didn't need to. Though in that moment, even the most extreme reaction on Palpatine's part would've been fine by Han.

He scrabbled to get up, cursing as he slipped in the thick dust—

"Han, wait!" Desperation made Luke actually reach out to grab Han's arm, so that he was yanked up as Han stood, though he didn't let go. "You've always said that you want me to trust you…well I just did. I just did!" He stared, the unspoken challenge obvious in his wide eyes and his tense stance: _What are you going to do with it?_

Han paused, torn. What did he do? Hold it—hold the kid's trust and stay silent…or go back there and…and what? He'd just gotten off telling the kid that violence wasn't the answer. Was he really going to go back there and punch some old guy's lights out?

He dragged his hands through his hair to clasp them at the back of his neck as he leaned on the door jamb, tired and world-weary. What the hell kind of life was this that the kid lived, when even that last redoubt turned out to be nothing more than calculated exploitation? He'd known all along that anything Indo felt for the kid was conditional—Indo's actions when he'd willingly taken Luke's lightsaber to Palpatine, then stood placidly by and watched the Old Man turn it on the kid, had clarified that. But this… "I can't just…" He stuttered to a stop, too furious to conjure words.

"I'll stop," Luke said, absolutely serious. "I've barely smoked for weeks, you know that. I'll stop, now. But you can't go to Palpatine."

"You can't keep protecting people who act like this with you."

"Like what?"

And there it was. Hadn't Gorn said it, what seemed like an age ago: _"You've seen how Luke's grown up here, what his life's like. He doesn't know any better. How could he? To him, this is normal."_

Han turned, voice firm. Angry, but not at the kid. "Okay, this is how it's gonna be from now on. You stop takin' stuff off Indo. In fact, you stop takin' stuff, period. You don't need that crap any more. If you've got some kind of problem, whatever it is, you come to me, right?"

The kid nodded in silence and Han pushed on.

"Not to Indo—you don't go to a guy who thinks that's a solution to anything, understand? You don't go. Me and you, we're a team, and we get through this together. I'm not goin' anywhere—you know that now. I'm in this until you kick me out…and mean it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay, then," Han said. He lifted a hand to rest it on the kid's shoulder, not pausing when Luke leaned back, arm automatically lifting just slightly in defense. "Let's get back to your apartment."

"Why?"

"'Cos I want every damn box you've got hidden there. Tonight."

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"This all of them?" Han was holding three boxes containing mixed amounts of spice, two near-empty, one full.

They'd entered without seeing anyone, the doors to the three offices just inside the main entrance all closed. Indo had sent Gorn on some kind of concocted task early this morning, Han knew, presumably not liking too many sets of eyes around when he was _cleaning up_. As for Indo himself…Han had no idea, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna go looking for the man.

In Luke's rooms, the first box had come from the underfloor space that Han already knew about, a second from the roof space inside the fresher, and the last…the last was just placed casually on the kid's crumpled bedsheets. Luke hadn't even known it was there.

"What about elsewhere?"

Luke's dark-ringed eyes lifted in thought. He was still pretty accommodating right now, stretched too thin and way too tired, half-trusting Han, half mollifying him, Han knew. Maybe he even wanted this himself, at the back of his mind. Maybe too much had come to a head last night, and something had to give.

"Uuhhh…there's a box in the study opposite the library, and a few balanced inside the plasterwork cornice in the atrium of the main crossroads outside. And a box in the cartography hall nine levels down."

"What the hell, were you savin' up for a party?"

"And some on top of the secondary ziggurat."

"…Any more?"

"Probably."

"Well, since that sounds like a day's work all on its own, I'll take what I've got for now, and bring a bag tomorrow," Han said. "A big one. In the meantime, you get some sleep."

"Okay." Luke stood uncertainly, hands gripped together, eyes on the spice he'd handed over. "What are you gonna do with it?"

"Well I'm sure as hell not gonna flush it down the recyc," Han said lightly, pushing two of the boxes into his pockets. "Get some sleep. Comm me when you wake up." They'd been up and moving since Han had first met Leia alone yesterday evening—was it really just yesterday? Hadn't exactly been a stress-free night, with Kenobi, then Vader, then Palpatine, then Ashtor…even the kid, who could do these long stints without tiring, was visibly failing, hunched and drawn.

"Okay…okay." Luke pulled his gaze off the box Han held, and turned to glance around the empty room, then nodded, hesitantly.

It occurred to Han only now that Indo had been so determined that the kid's every waking hour would be filled with the serious stuff like duties and study, that there really was nothing else here. Not just in the kid's room, but in his whole life.

He paused, wanting to end this on a positive. "Hey…look at us. All hell's hailed down in the last thirty hours, and we're still standing." The kid stared, and Han shrugged in allowance. "Okay, a little frayed round the edges, I'll give you that."

"Oh, you'll give me that." Luke's voice regained a fraction of its dry edge as he glanced to the spice box in Han's hand. "But nothing else, apparently."

"I got news for you, kid," Han said genially, "you don't need it. You never did. All you gotta do now, is prove it to yourself."

Luke tilted his head. "Pep talk done?"

"Smartass."

"Killjoy."

Han turned, and was through the first room and halfway towards the mirrored doors which marked the end of Luke's bare rooms before he said lightly, and just loud enough to be heard, "And the last word is mine."

He heard the kid mutter something from the bedroom behind him, and waited until the doors had opened with that familiar _snick_, before adding, "… Still mine."

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Without needing to maintain face for the kid's benefit, Han's mood darkened as he walked through the soulless, sterile grandeur of the stately enfilade and into the dark, ebony-lined corridor. He was nearly at the exit before the door to Indo's office opened and the man himself glanced up, clearly surprised, that same superior look on his face—and Han had never been so tempted to wipe it off.

"Lieutenant Solo. I hadn't expected to see you here at all, today. I thought that even you would have more discretion than to show your face after…"

Han lifted the small wooden box, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"More?" Indo asked at last. "Where did you find it this time?"

"No, I'm done playing this game," Han growled. "I know you're the one who fills it."

Indo straightened fractionally. "How dare y—"

"Spare me the indignation. That's why you don't want anyone else to give him any, isn't it? It'd ruin that handy little stranglehold you have on him. Quite a stitch-up you got going there, very neat."

Indo stared for long seconds, his flexing jaw the only tell on an otherwise poker face. Finally, with a brief glance down the empty corridor, he turned about and walked calmly back into his office—and it only stoked the flames higher for Han.

He followed, holding the box up. "What the hell made you give a kid this stuff?"

"Because it keeps him alive!" Indo hissed without compunction. "You know his life here, the pressure he's under. If this is what helps him until he's old enough to hold his own, then this is what's necessary."

"And you think that he's just gonna stop one day, when you've been giving him this crap for years? Look at him!"

"I didn't start this, Luke did. I don't know where he first got them, I don't even know how long he'd been taking them for. I only knew when he was rushed into the medicenter half-comatose, because whatever he'd taken had been cut with compounds one step short of poison. I told him to stop. He didn't. He was back in the medicenter within two months. And again, soon after." Indo paused, chin rising. "So I stepped in. With no other options, I stepped in and I provided a product that I at least knew was clean. Uncut."

"_Product!_"

"Luke bought it anywhere—on the streets, in back-room spice dens, he didn't care. I set up reliable sources, clean sources. I had medical checks put in place for purity and concentration, I—"

"It's still spice!"

"It's a controllable situation," Indo ground out. "A containable one."

"Yeah? That why you keep on having to burn the stuff he's bought elsewhere? You haven't changed anything, Indo, you just put yourself in the loop. That's what the kid meant, isn't it? When you found the spice in his quarters that night he was gone, it was stuff you hadn't supplied—that's why he said you were just worried that your control was slipping."

"You know nothing about how far I've got him, what he was like when he first came into my care, what was necessary to stabilize him. You just stumble blindly in and—"

"Care!" Han spit the word out. "Look at him—look at him right now! Have you actually spoken to him recently—I mean sat down and spoken to him, not checked that he's done his coursework from the ridiculous amount of stuff you pile on him, or made sure he's done this report or that task? I mean have you actually had a conversation, and _listened_ to him? The kid's falling apart. Look at the walls of his room, for Sith's sake. Look at how he lives, holing himself up in a corner before he feels safe enough to sleep!"

"There is nothing wrong with Luke's mental state."

"Listen to yourself—just listen! You're part of the problem and you won't even see it. You won't admit it to yourself. You just keep pushing on with your precious agenda and painting over the cracks. Anything that doesn't fit in just gets ignored, right? You're making the same mistakes now that you made with…" Han broke off, glaring at that perfect sabacc face, which remained intact and unmoved.

When Indo spoke, his voice was as cool as ever. "In five years' time, Luke will hold sufficient rank that most of his daily difficulties will be resolved. He'll have a life well outside of the confines of the palace and…"

"Five years? In five months he may crack—in five weeks…hell, in five days!"

"I have held Luke together for five years here already, Lieutenant Solo. I will hold him together for five more. By my own methods—none of which I feel the need to validate to you."

"No? How about yourself—or does convenience come above conscience, every time?"

"I've kept him alive, made him of use!"

"Used him, you mean."

"Made him of value," Indo ground out. "Look where he is, the rank he's achieved, the kudos he holds in the Emperor's eyes."

"I'm talking about the kid's sanity and you're quoting what rank he might make."

"Rank will buy him immunity from the petty infighting—rank will buy him respect."

"Really," Han nodded dryly. "Or will it just drag him further into the firing line? But then even that's not a problem for you, is it? It's just a calculated risk. You said to me…you actually had the gall to look me in the eye in the medicenter, and accuse me of finding it easy to push the kid, when it was Luke who faced the reprisal. What the hell are you doing, in pushing him through the ranks this young?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"The hell you don't. You know damn well that the only place that the kid can go from here, the position he's actually competing for—the position you're knowingly pushing him towards—is Vader's. You _know_ that!"

Indo stared for long seconds…then glanced aside, adamantly dismissive. "The situation is manageable."

Han raised the box. "What, like this is manageable? You said yourself that Vader becomes more of a threat every year…and he does it because you keep on pushing the kid, regardless, don't you? You seriously think you can keep Luke out of Vader's way while you just keep on driving him up through the ranks, with the Emperor? Do you really think you can hold someone like Vader back? Cos I'm telling you, I've seen what he's like with the kid, and I'm betting not. I like the occasional gamble, but I know bad odds when I see 'em, and that's an all-out fight just barely waiting to happen…and when it does, you know that only one of them will walk away from it."

Indo's expression didn't once change, leaving Han to wonder whether that cool, detached indifference ran right to the core of him.

"Believe me, Lieutenant Solo, Luke is more than resilient enough to weather this. He has in the past, and he will continue to do so—with or without your help."

"That's what this is all about for you, isn't it—how far you can push him," Han said, disgusted. "He's not your son, Indo."

Fury flared in Indo's eyes for a moment, then chilled to icy rage. "You're dismissed, Lieutanant."

Han didn't even hesitate: he was in too far already. "You're makin' the same mistakes that you did with Dubrail. You're pushing Luke for your own gain. Pushing him to achieve what you couldn't—pushing him too hard. Giving a kid spice to cope, when the pressure gets too high? You're not willing to try to reduce the pressure—oh, no! You'll just give the kid spice instead!"

"Don't you dare talk about—"

"You're using him…using a kid to secure your own power base, because it's easier that trying yourself—safer. Isn't that what you were looking to do with your own son?"

Indo lurched forward. "Get out!"

"What, and leave him with you? I don't think so. Here," Han slammed the box down hard onto that perfectly-polished, inlaid desk, "you might want to get rid of that—get rid of it all—because let me tell you, the only thing that's stopping me taking it to Palpatine right now, is the fact that your sorry mistakes'll drag Luke down too. But let me tell you this too; if I see it in his room again…I'll take it anyway."

Han whirled about and strode out before the temptation to do just that overcame him, stalking back to his rooms through hallways whose stark and sombre shadows reflected, for once, his own bleak thoughts.

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To be continued…..

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	26. Chapter 26

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**CHAPTER TWENTY SIX**

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Luke sat watching dusk fall to darkness, the first chill of night cutting through the thin shirt he wore. He'd slept through the day without Indo coming to rouse him, and woken as the waning sunset had stretched its shadows across the capital, the massive bulk of the Imperial Palace casting its broad, deep influence into the darkening gloom. Rising, muggy from sleep and with only the fact that he had no spice at all in his rooms on his mind, he'd come up to one of the smaller flat roofs of the main ziggurat, winding his way through the wide, rattling piping of the maze of air exchanges which cluttered and clattered unseen, to reach its castellated edge…and beyond.

Now, he sat cross-legged looking out over the city from one of the stone leader heads which protruded from the external walls at roof level. From the ground, the leader heads which diverted the rainfall from the palace's leaded roofs clear of its masonry walls, were small and slim and delicate. But a hundred stories up, their scale matched the building, four feet wide and easily six feet long. Luke sat mid-way along its length, a sheer drop beneath him as the wind buffeted him, tussling his hair and tugging at his clothes, the occasional gust rocking his body. But he'd climbed out to and sat on these leader heads for five years, and had no particular fear of falling, despite having done so twice, in his life. It was amazing, what you could grab for and hold onto, when the alternative was death itself.

He frowned at that, considering it in the greater context…then looked down at the object whose existence—and implications—had burned into his awareness even in sleep. Placed carefully on the parapet on which he sat, was the small vial of blood that Kenobi had given him. Laid on its side in the drainage channel of the water spout, it rocked slightly in the high winds, just barely protected from the wild gusts which whistled and whipped at the edge of the massive building.

He should throw it from the leader head—or simply stand it upright, and let the wind take it. He could almost see its path, as it was snatched away into the encroaching night, turned end over end by the high wind until it was lost, or hurled to smash against the blue-slabbed stone of the palace walls…

He should do it, he really should. It was a dangerous, deadly game that he had somehow become caught up in, and it should stop, now. There was nothing to be gained, even in knowing. It would change nothing, save that if Palpatine found out…

And anyway, all of this was speculation. It could be completely untrue, all of it. Right now, this was nothing more than unconfirmed hearsay—and that from a Jedi, his sworn enemy. He leaned forward and took the vial gently, cupping it in his hand to stare. What he needed…was facts. And he couldn't get those here.

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In the medicenter, the 3-1B droid sealed the sterile blood sample as Luke rolled his shirt sleeve down and hitched his jacket back on. It turned to hand over the sample, mild tone friendly and expectant. "Will there be.. n..t.."

The medical droid pitched over forward in a fine shower of sparks as Luke took the sample from its grip, stepping coolly to the side to avoid its fall. It collapsed to the ground in a clatter of plasteel, a fine wisp of smoke carrying up the faint smell of charred circuitry and fused insulation.

"Thank you, no," he stated easily, stepping over the ruined wreck of the droid without another thought and into the corridor beyond—to come face to face with the medic, Hassett.

"Luke?" Hassett glanced in through the door to the fallen droid, then back to Luke.

He shrugged, prepared to brazen this out. "Turns out you were right; I do wreck medical droids."

The medic narrowed his eyes, but remained still. "Do you need something?"

"No." Luke kept the vial concealed, held against the palm of his hand by his thumb, his fingers hanging loose.

"Then why are you here?"

"Headache." It wasn't a lie, actually, though he could just as easily have chosen to cite the cramps which twisted his stomach from time to time, or the nausea that always came with spice withdrawal.

"Considering the plethora of drugs which you seem able to avail yourself of at any given hour, I find it difficult to believe that you don't keep analgesics in your apartment."

Luke smiled thinly, already bored of this; Hassett had nothing on him, and he was far enough down in the order of things that if he wanted to go to Palpatine, then he'd need more than vague suspicion and a broken droid. "I know—imagine the irony. You're standing in my way."

Hassett stepped slowly to the side as Luke set forward at an even pace, tilting his hand to keep the vial hidden as he passed the medic.

"You haven't received an analgesic," Hassett said to his back.

"I'll live," Luke replied without turning.

"I can give you one."

"You'll likely lace it with something, to curb my habits." He turned to walk backward, smiling at the medic as he moved towards the medibay exit. "The droid I didn't like, but you I don't trust."

"Perhaps I should be grateful, then, that you can't blow my CPU as easily."

Luke held the knowing half-smile on his face a little longer…then turned, and left the medicenter, dropping his hand casually into his pocket to let the second blood vial clink against the first.

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He was already in the street outside of the Blue Lekku when the comm came in, and he pulled his comlink from his pocket to glance at it…Leia Skywalker—again. It brought him to a momentary stop to stare at the chiming comlink, aware that this was the third time he hadn't answered. Eventually it stopped, and Luke set it to silent, then returned it to his pocket as he opened the door.

Noise hit him in a wave—music, chatter, shouting, raucous laughter…everyday life. He'd never felt particularly connected to it. Real life was something to be used as cover whilst he went on about his real business. Something to be observed from a distance with a kind of morbid fascination. Something to be accessed for information, or emulated for camouflage. He passed familiar faces sitting in familiar spots, their minds calm or settled or alcohol-blank; no one too nervous. Nothing to worry about. So why was his own heart beating staccato at what he was about to do?

He nodded once at the barman as he walked through without stopping, and the big, heavy-built Besalisk raised hairless eyebrows to wrinkle the thick crest down the center of his head in cool acknowledgment. Passing through an unmarked door at the back of the cantina, Luke entered a darker room so thick with smoke that you didn't really need to buy the spice—you could get high on the fumes.

It smelled good—the spice. He'd been without for almost a week—none at all in the rush that had happened since Kenobi had arrived—and the fact that Han had now removed all of his hidden stores had slowly fired a quiet panic within Luke that hadn't been there before, so the smell and familiarity of this place made his heart beat faster again, adrenaline kicking in anticipation. He glanced briefly at figures slouched on low seats, eyes lingering on the spice sticks they held…then looked resolutely forward, quietly cursing Solo.

His thoughts began playing their usual tricks, unprompted. This wouldn't last; he'd go back on the spice anyway, so why not do it now? What was a few more days? How was he supposed to face Palpatine without the Force-diffusion that the spice offered, anyway? Did Solo have an answer to that? No. And just one stick would make no difference—he could have just one, now, here, and then not do it again for a while. No-one would even know. Just one didn't really count, and it would make him feel so much better. The cramps had come back in the last hour, as had the shakes, but Luke was damned if he'd ask the medic, Hassett, for something to combat them. Damned if he'd face that self-righteous stare. And he could stop both at any time anyway, he knew. He didn't have to smoke the whole spice stick—half would get rid of the withdrawal, and he could throw the rest away. He could do that—just half of one, then throw the rest away…

He walked on, cursing Solo again.

The bouncer, another Besalisk and cousin of the barman Litto, glanced up as Luke slowed at the far door, marked 'No admittance'. But Luke was a common enough customer here that he too only nodded, giving Luke an up and down glance and a curl of his wide, mobile lips that suggested he was singularly unimpressed.

Clutching the vials in his pocket, Luke walked through, flinching in the bright lights of the lab beyond.

There were few places that he knew of, where he could have the blood samples tested with reasonable reliability and well below any official radars. Lind, the chemist who worked in the back of the Blue Lekku testing and mixing for the spice den Luke had just passed through, wouldn't go to the authorities but had all the facilities and more importantly the skills necessary. And of course, considering his profession, he wisely kept the complete set-up unconnected to Coruscant's main hub—which was quite a trick, in the Capital; on any built-up Core world, Luke knew. You didn't have to voluntarily connect to the Hub, pretty much anything and everything connected automatically. If you didn't protect it with full wide-frequency shielding, then someone, somewhere, was monitoring, and by dint of his own position within the Ubiqtorate, Luke knew for a fact that certain bites of information passing through the mainframe triggered a flag, anything listed as having been accessed regarding them sent to Intel and security bureaus for further study. And he was pretty damn sure that the blood groups which were being utilized for the test would light all kinds of alarms, somewhere. To keep the test isolated, therefore, was the ideal.

Another surge of guilt tightened his gut, that he was here, like this. Coming for spice was one thing; this was knowing, premeditated deceit—of Palpatine himself.

"Dack!" Lind looked up from his work with a grin. Closer to Han's age than Luke's, he had the slight frame and waxen skin of all users, with an affable, easygoing smile that came too easily.

"Hey, Lind." Luke smiled in reaction to the name he'd used since first coming here three years ago. "How're things?"

"Good, and about to get better, if you've got some credits with you."

Luke dug into his jacket pocket and put 250 in Imperial script on the desk—along with the vials.

Normally he would have spent half a day pondering over just who had hacked him off sufficiently in the palace that he could be bothered breaking into their apartment to clean them out as a matter of principle, but today his own guilt had made him use one of the many stashes of credits he'd accumulated and hidden about the palace. As a kid, finally released from the confines of the Throne Room and dropped into a marginally more 'normal' life, it had been food that he'd stolen and systematically hidden, for fear of further neglect. Now it was credits, or spice—old habits died hard, it seemed.

Lind leaned forward to run a finger over the credits in a rough check, then picked up the two vials. "So whose are these?"

Luke shrugged casually. "I got a hundred myself, for doing the drop and waiting for the results…for those kinds of payoffs, you don't get to ask questions."

"You know, if they'd wanted a paternity test, they could have just handed over sterile swabs."

"Hey, I'm just passing on what I was given," Luke said, affecting disinterest. "How long for the results?"

"Half an hour. You can go wait in the den if you want—have something on the house."

"I'll wait here, if it's okay."

Lind held Luke's eye for a fraction too long, then grinned again. "Whatever. Take a seat."

Luke glanced about the big room and pulled out a tall lab stool, familiar with its layout from previous visits. He and Lind weren't exactly friends—Lind had that particular vague but sociable affability which meant nothing, Luke knew—but previous discussions on everything from planetary trade embargoes and martial law to Litto's frankly appalling cocktails, saved only by the fact that the bartender used all four arms to juggle bottles and pour measures, had made them comfortable acquaintances.

The lab was organized haphazardly, with clinical analysis equipment crushed chaotically onto cracked and worn surfaces, their sterile finish long-since overwhelmed. Piles of used slides and encrusted vials had been discarded and simply pushed to the back of long benches over the years. It smelled, as ever, of burned spice and boiled stasis fluid.

Stasis fluid…a brief image reformed in his head, and he gave it hold; closed his eyes and let it take him: _the squat, dour building beneath overcast skies; the gurgle of air through medical stasis fluid…_

It wasn't the first time he'd seen the vision, nor had it been the first when he'd been with Palpatine in the early hours of dawn yesterday. Yet he hadn't told Palpatine that he'd seen it before; had felt deeply apprehensive at the very idea of doing so. It existed on two levels, the vision; the physical and the mental. Far away, though its source was at the very center of everything… _Shouldn't be here…_

Luke jolted abruptly as that knowledge assaulted him, and shook his head free of the vision and back to the moment, uneasy. Lind glanced up from his task, but said nothing; in his line of work, you didn't generally see people at their most self-possessed, Luke supposed.

"Jumpy?" the chemist eventually said.

"Clean at the moment—" Luke shrugged; glanced away. "Makes me edgy."

"How long for?"

"Who knows."

Lind nodded genially, and Luke could sense his indifference; his unspoken certainty that it wouldn't last. Given where he worked, he could probably quote a long line of examples. But despite his occupation and habits, Lind was still a capable chemist, and the set-up was watertight, Luke knew that; he'd checked himself, to be sure that he was safe buying here.

He watched Lind work for the next half-hour. Made inane small-talk when all the while his head rang with greater knowledge, alternating between cool logic and the disconnected calm of denial, and momentary flares of misgivings, aware that even now, as that first kernel of need began to eat at him, the larger part of him didn't want to find out. Part of him still couldn't believe that he had even gone this far—that he had listened to Kenobi at all. He knew his past and present associations, allies and enemies both. He had neither the desire nor the need to reassess…so why was he here?

This time yesterday, he'd known exactly who he was. He hadn't met Kenobi, hadn't faced the old man's quiet, persuasive manipulations. Hadn't stood before him in mute shock as he'd dismantled everything Luke had believed he'd known.

This time yesterday, his biggest problem had been what to tell Han, when he killed Kenobi, as he intended. Han…Luke sighed, resisting the urge to shake his head. He hadn't mentioned the vial to him yet—hadn't said anything of this. Maybe it was denial, maybe it was the deeper knowledge that these were genuinely dangerous truths—the kind that could easily get someone killed...though he wasn't entirely sure who.

He stared at the open vials on the scuffed table as he chewed at his thumbnail, then glanced down, still deathly tired, aware that he'd been silent for too long but unable to pull himself out of his own convoluted thoughts. It was only when Lind stood that Luke looked up, tensing. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, he had the uneasy feeling that he was going to walk out of here a different man to the one who had walked in. A different past shaping present perceptions. How many times had Palpatine turned his world on its head and crumbled its foundations just for the pleasure of seeing him stumble? Now, the chance to hold definite facts was finally in his grasp…and Luke was terrified.

Why? Because if it was true, then everything his Master had done to date paled by comparison. "Well?"

"Well, I'd be very interested to know where you got the samples from," Lind opened as he lifted one of the small, half empty vials—Luke's—his usual easy grin now absent.

"Why?"

"These are pretty rare blood groups, with atypical DNA. I haven't tried them for midichlorian content 'cos it'd require interaction with the main hub—maybe even a military access code—but I'm pretty sure that if I did…"

"I'm not interested in Force abilities, I want a more general breakdown. I want its geneology." He recognized his own slip instantly: _I_, not _they_.

Fortunately, Lind was too wrapped up in his own nerves to notice. "Well, again without being able to run it through the mainframe archive, it's hard to lock down…"

"I know that," Luke dismissed, not interested in rationalizations or proviso's. "What can you tell me with what you've got?"

Lind sighed, placing the vial down with care. "Human, male, unusual DNA, as I said. Genealogically, there's accountable Nabooan human DNA, which doesn't mean that the subject was from there, simply that he has recent Nabooan heritage in at least one parent. It's Class Two, so he would look human, and there are no genetic defects…"

"Why Class Two?" Luke interrupted. "Why not Class One?"

"Class One is pure-bred and I just can't account for a percentage of that DNA; it follows no known pattern, including any and all officially listed human and alien hybrid DNA's I can pull down. It's completely outside of the known spectrum. Strictly speaking that makes it unclassifiable, but for the clarity of the test, I've defined that percentage as non-human, which would put it in Class Two. I suspect it may actually be some kind of natural mutation resulting from hybrid fusion, but generally that kind of transmutation is still attributable."

This was news; it had never occurred to Luke to have his own DNA analyzed before, but then why should it? He'd believed he'd known his past—had it thrown at him like a weapon so many times by Palpatine. "So one parent wasn't human?"

"Oh, they were both human, but one parent had that same unclassifiable DNA. There's something very unusual happening there." Lind stared at the screen as it scrolled results, fascination shining briefly. "It could have been the Nabooan donor who had it, but judging from the breakdown, I'd say it was the second donor. Unfortunately there's no way to separate off which parent donated which facets of DNA without a full-spectrum analysis, which would mean connecting to a main hub."

"An informed guess as to which parent had Nabooan heritage?" His mother, Breha, had of course been from Alderaan—a member of the Royal Houses, all of whom were closely linked and genetically attributable. Luke felt a tightening in his chest as it occurred that the test could coincidentally disprove the only true link he'd thought certain. Quite suddenly, he realized that he didn't want to know; had opened his mouth to tell the medic to stop—

"Nabooan is probably from the maternal donor," Lind said, eyes on the screen.

And just like that, another pillar that Luke had relied on to prop up his crumbling past was gone, the knowledge burning in his chest as the chemist continued, unaware of the body-blow he'd just delivered.

"The distinctive DNA is paternal, I'd guess. Again, if I had access to the main hub I could verify that, but..."

"How…how certain can you be without accessing the mainframe?"

"Everything I've told you is fact," Lind assured. "The only thing I can't guarantee without that full-spectrum analysis is what the hell that unattributable DNA is, and which parent donated which specific facets. What I'm telling you here is an informed guess based on the numbers."

"How reliable?" Luke pushed.

Lind tilted his head in allowance. "Maybe eighty percent, somewhere in that field. With a full-spectrum I could give you above ninety-nine percent accuracy."

Luke braced himself as he nodded his head toward the readout on the screen of the DNA sample that Kenobi had supplied. "The second sample?"

"Obviously, the same caveats apply here, and the sample was hardly sterile, but again it's human, Class One, male. Another rare blood group, but attributable." Lind looked Luke up and down, clearly wondering where the samples were from. "Again, I'm thinking a test for midichlorian content might clear a few things up on that score…"

"Any paternal connection to the first sample?" If the chemist couldn't recognize the tension in Luke's face and voice then he must be blind and deaf, but if he did, then he hid it well. Luke waited, an eternity stretching taut as Lind looked back down at the screen, frowning. "No, none."

_None._

Just like that, Luke's whole life had been turned upside down, and what the hell was Palpatine doing this time? What was happening to Luke's life, when his enemies told the truth and his closest ally—his own Master—offered only manipulations and lies? "There's no connection—none at all?"

"Not genetically, no. No connection."

_No connection._

Aware of the chemist's eyes still on him, Luke stepped mechanically forward to take the samples. "You've made no copies of this, in whole or in part?" he asked mechanically, going through the motions without thinking; it was beginning to become second nature to him, covering his back—necessary protection against supposed allies.

"No, and you saw me incinerate the samples I used." Lind too was solemn, as if he understood the danger he'd brought down on himself, simply in having had the vials in his lab.

"Thanks," Luke said neutrally, at a loss for words, though his thoughts screamed out in shock. The man whom he'd believed to be his father for most of his life—whom Palpatine himself had identified as such based, he'd claimed, on genetic samples—was nothing more than a random stranger.

What was wrong with him, that he didn't even know if he was relieved or disappointed?

Luke turned and walked quickly to the door, and was almost there before Lind spoke out again. "Dack…you take your fee and you get rid of those vials, you hear me? That's dangerous stuff you're toting round."

And it was, Luke knew that now…but even if he got rid of the vials, he was still a walking, talking time bomb, mind ticking with profound facts. He nodded once, and turned—

"Hey, Dack?" The pharmacist straightened and walked to a run of clear plasmesh boxes which were stacked along one wall. "Here, you tried this?"

He lifted a small packet from one of the boxes and threw it to Luke, who caught it one-handed. "What is it?"

"New variant on the market. Snow and Ruby cross-blend. Thinking I might call it Red Snow. Free sample—on the house."

"No, thanks." Luke threw the packet back. "I told you, I'm clean."

Lind shrugged, and threw it back again. "Keep it for a bad day."

Luke wanted to laugh out loud… Instead he gave the barest smile, hesitating for a second…then he pocketed the bag, nodding.

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"So…what happened between you and Indo, then?"

Han turned to Gorn, his first thought that he had bigger things to worry about right now…but sitting on his chair across the staffroom, eyes trained on his virtual screen, Gorn's voice was innocently casual…which always made Han itch.

"Why d'you think something happened between me and Indo?"

"Because you're both walking around like neks with sore heads, and I already know what happened last night, to make Luke turn on Ashtor."

"Maybe it was that."

Gorn slouched back as he swivelled his chair about, smiling amicably. "I considered that…and Force knows, Luke getting arrested and dragged back here on a troop transport is bad enough…but I couldn't link it to you, so—"

"That a fact?" Han raised his eyebrows—and instantly regretted it, as Gorn leaned forward.

"Should I have? I heard you'd gone out to stop him. You…_did_ go out to stop him, didn't you?"

Han glanced down, following the script he and the kid had worked out—albeit only roughly. "Nothing to stop. Luke went out after a Jedi who was on Coruscant. Ashtor told Vader, and Vader tried to cut in on the action—had the kid arrested to get him out of the way."

"So it's true?"

"What?"

"I heard Luke'd been shouting Vader down in front of the Emperor."

"How the hell do you know that?"

Gorn shrugged. "C'mon, there were about sixty people on the other side of those doors last night…and you can bet that they were all listening _real_ hard."

Now they were into an area that Han hadn't even heard. "What happened?"

Gorn grinned, in his element when regaling palace gossip. "Shouting, posturing…some people swear they heard lightsabers ignite. Luke came storming out, and Vader followed soon afterwards."

"Did it…seem like Luke was in trouble?"

"Like you said, he hadn't really done anything wrong." Gorn hesitated, eyes lifting to Han. "He...hadn't done anything wrong, right?"

Han looked down, the surety of his voice coming easily, because he believed it absolutely. "No, he hadn't done anything wrong. Sometimes that doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of difference around here, though."

Gorn fell to silence for a moment, thoughtful. "You did a brave thing, trying to step in—with Ashtor."

Han sighed. "Yeah, well, that didn't make much difference in the end, either, did it?"

"I don't know, seems to me like you've made a lot of difference here. More than you think. You don't know what it was like before you got here—with Luke. He was…you know. He's really changed…or he's trying to." Again he hesitated, tentative now. "Is that why Indo's down on you—because he thinks you're stepping in on his territory?"

"I haven't even started yet," Han said grimly—then pulled back, remembering who he was talking to, and all too aware that even friends could damn you here, with a few innocent words in the wrong ear. "Besides, who said anything's going on between us?"

"You're kidding me. I don't need any of those Sith skills to see that you could cut the tension around here with a knife today."

Han leaned back, looking to dispel that a little, aware that he'd promised the kid that he'd say nothing to Indo…which already hadn't worked out so well. Maybe that was why Luke hadn't commed Han when he'd woken this afternoon, instead slinking out of the apartment to who knew where. Certainly the kid wasn't answering his comlink, though that could mean anything from his not wishing to speak to Han ever again, to his having abandoned it somewhere, or simply ignoring it, as Han had seen him do often enough. "Nah, we're just…y'know, business as usual."

Gorn stared for a few seconds more, and Han knew that excuse wasn't even nearly gonna cut it.

"What can I say?" he added. "Maybe I finally realized a few things."

Gorn stared long and hard at Han, lips pursing. "You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

"I can tell you Indo's no good for the kid."

"I thought you already knew that."

"So did I. Turns out I didn't know the half of it."

Again Gorn paused… "Remember what I told you the first week you were here? Don't get involved."

The soft tack of boots on hard floors made them both sit up, as Luke walked quickly past without slowing. Rising, Han patted Gorn on the shoulder on his way out of the staffroom. "Too late for that."

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In the silent stillness of the main corridor he heard the library door slide closed, and went to follow the kid, walking in without pause. "Oh you're still alive, then? Only I was beginning to wonder, after you failed to answer five comms."

Whatever Luke had made to roll across the wide main desk before Han entered, he now reached out his hand and it shot back, visible only for a moment, though his voice was calm. "That was you?"

"Who did you think it was?"

"I was getting other comms."

"Right, so I just got ignored in the rush to ignore someone else's comms, huh?" Starting forward, he scowled as his brain only just fathomed the brief glimpse of what Luke was holding. "And what the hell was that?"

"What?"

"In your hand—what was that, a vial?"

"That..." The kid paused a long time, as if trying to decide whether to say anything at all…but whatever it was, it was so clearly eating him up inside, and he had to speak to someone. He opened his hand, placing the small medical vial on the polished table. "That, is a thousand questions."

Han stared at the viscous ruby fluid in the small vial. "Yeah? 'cos it looks a lot like a vial of blood to me." He reached out to take it…

"It is." Luke held out his hand and the small vial clinked once as it tipped, then flew neatly back into his palm before Han touched it. Luke held it up to shake it as he studied it…and again, Han had the distinct impression that the kid was deciding how much to say. "In fact, I have it on very good authority that it's a sample of blood from Darth Vader's son."

And there was why.

In amidst all their existing problems, the universe had apparently taken the time to add one more to the teetering pile. Han stared at the vial, all earlier worries about whether the kid had realized his argument with Indo forgotten. "Vader's? You serious?"

Luke nodded contemplatively. "I'm very serious. Maybe deadly serious. The question is, am I serious enough to let Vader know."

"He doesn't already?" That was a twist—for the kid to have something on Vader.

"I don't think so. I'm not even sure that it's real, yet."

"You're not sure?"

"No. I need a sample of Vader's DNA that hasn't been through the system or been stored."

"That's gonna be tough. It's not like you can pick up a shed hair or a glass he's drunk from."

"I know." Luke considered a long time, his eyes remaining on the vial as he spoke. "There is one way to check without any outside contamination, of course: give Vader this sample. Let him do the check."

"Let him know? That's a hell of a risk."

"It guarantees a reliable sample, though."

"You're assuming he'll tell you the result."

"Since I know where this came from and he doesn't, I think that's a given. If it's genuine, he'll have to come back to find out more."

"Well then, I guess the next question is, can you protect him?"

"Protect him?"

Han nodded to the vial. "The kid—from Vader."

Luke frowned, eyes skipping the polished desk before him—clearly he hadn't even considered that. It was the first thing that had occurred to Han; he was surprised it hadn't yet done so to Luke. "You're assuming Vader will be happy about all this, and not see the kid as just another threat. And what if the Emperor found out—what kind of threat do you think he'd see in Vader having that kind of connection to someone?"

A dry smile came to Luke's face. "The concept of Vader ever forming anything approaching an alliance with anyone is patently ludicrous."

Han nodded, aware of Luke's own childhood, spent at the mercy of Vader's bitter wrath. But this was different altogether—couldn't the kid see that? "Maybe so, but you know Old Yellow Eyes won't see it that way…or is that what you're thinking?" It occurred to Han now that if Luke wanted a way to remove Vader, then this could be it—though it would likely be at the cost of Vader's son's life, too.

Still, even if you weren't revenge-minded, considering that Vader had murdered Luke's father just yesterday, that thought had to be coming to the fore in the kid's head right now… And Luke had a dark streak—even Han admitted that.

The kid's comlink chimed, and Han paused as he took it out, checked it, then replaced it without answering.

"Who's that?"

"Doesn't matter."

But Han knew for a fact that only one person beside himself had the call-code for that particular comlink. "It's Leia, isn't it?" The kid glanced momentarily up to Han, but didn't speak. "You ever gonna answer it?"

"Did you tell her—about Kenobi being my…" he trailed off, unable to say it, seeming strangely unsettled about something that he'd been so comfortable with previously.

"No, I didn't tell her. I figured that's something for you and Kenobi to…well, something you'll want to tell her yourself. I would've thought that you and she had a lot to speak about now, with…with Kenobi, and all."

The barest twitch of Luke's head told volumes about his discomfort and uncertainty, though his words were cool as ever. "You'd think, wouldn't you? Turns out, not so much."

He was trying so hard to be indifferent, Han knew, but he'd been with the kid long enough now to know that this particular front of composed indifference meant that Luke was turning some big stuff over in his mind. He always got kinda distant when he was, all shut down for his own protection, every possible shield up—even from himself.

Luke turned abruptly and walked from the library, leaving Han to scowl after him. "Where you goin'?"

"I thought I'd speak to someone a little closer to home. Who knows, maybe I'll turn out to have something in common with him, instead."

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This time, when Luke ignored the comlink's chime, another came in just minutes later. Again, he lifted the comlink and watched it time out…then stopped, eyes coming to the polished gloss of the ebony door at the end of the long hallway he walked.

Finally, he lifted the comlink and pressed to record. "Same place as last time, two blocks east of the cantina, midnight tonight." He sent the message immediately, before he could change his mind. May as well get it over with.

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Reaching the tall door, Luke paused, seized by a sudden pang of doubt…then set his jaw, making the slightest nod in self-reassurance. Taking a calming breath, he pressed the entry chime and waited, aware of the ridiculousness of the situation. Given that Luke hadn't hidden his presence, Vader would have known when Luke had arrived on this floor—would have probably sensed his intent to come up here before even that. He certainly knew precisely how long Luke had stood in this hallway, so his decision not to answer immediately meant one of two things: either he was leaving Luke to stew to prove some petty point, or he was trying to decide whether to open the door at all.

The door slid silently aside and Vader's bulk filled it completely, barring any access.

Luke automatically gritted his teeth against familiar patterns of thought, Kenobi's death and his own arrest, to be dragged before Palpatine by stormtroopers on Vader's command, still fresh enough in his memories to smart. It was an effort to remind himself just why he was here, but when he did, he willed a calm, reasonable tone to his voice. "I need to talk with you."

For long moments Vader didn't move, nor did he speak, until Luke began to wonder if his attempt to uncover the truth would end right here, in stalemate… Then finally Vader stepped to one side and turned about, offering no further invitation as he strode into his chambers.

With only a second's hesitation, Luke followed. He'd had no idea, until this moment, what Vader's private chambers might be like. It had simply never occurred to him to wonder. Dark, he supposed, starkly Spartan. How could they be anything else?

The unlit corridor led into a huge room where the soft violets of the evening sky flooded in through a wall-length run of floor to ceiling windows, to cast velvety tones over pale, sand-colored walls.

There was little furniture—no particular concessions to human comforts; a console table, close to the door where Luke now slowed; a massive desk of pale wood to the far side of the room, its contents meticulously arranged. Behind it a huge piece of free-standing driftwood reached easily twice Luke's height and almost the same in span. No, not driftwood…it was too irregular; too pitted. Some other natural force had worn away at it over the decades, before its bone-white carcass had been mounted on a heavy fossilstone base.

About it, those pale walls were hung with massive, glass-framed images. Technical prints, mostly; exploded diagrams of bristling swoop engines and elegant Nubian yachts, their graceful lines rendered in meticulous detail.

It was fascinating, what another considered art; what moved them sufficiently to spur the desire to display it as such.

Three steps away Vader turned about and Luke stared, seeing him afresh now, a dark hollow, even here. He wore his armour on the outside, a visible barrier blocking all access, denying any concept of humanity. Luke carried his scars and his shields deeper, but they were just as impenetrable—Palpatine had seen to that. Had taken great care to help Luke build those diamond shields, the path through them known and chartable only to his Master.

Because the shields which protected also isolated—both Vader and Luke knew that; maybe even understood it of the other, in some way. It was likely the nearest they ever came to any kind of connection—and even then, it was light-years apart.

Luke glanced again to the prints…they were interesting; fastidious. He wondered whether Vader had studied the minute details of that Nubian yacht a thousand times, without once seeing the exquisite elegance of its fluid lines. Whether he became, in all things, mired in the minutiae without stepping back to consider the greater picture. Whether he found comfort in the regular predictability of the mechanical, devoid of emotional complications.

Wondered for the first time whether his own walls, strewn with vivid flashes of intense color, meant that he sought out the passionate, the vital, the vibrant …or perhaps simply compensated for some loss perceived of the same in his own life, to cover every inch of his narrow existence with ever more intense expressions of individual freedom.

His eyes came back to the twisted, sandblasted wood which…sandblasted; he remembered the image he'd drawn onboard the Death Star, taken directly from Vader's mind: high canyon walls in muted striations, their footings dusted in desert sand.

Remembered his words to Han: "_This is erosion, presumably by sand, since this is all desert. This is something familiar, something he knew..."_

Remembered Han's reply: _"Why is it important? Seriously, why do you want to know?"_

_"Know your enemies," _Luke had said—and meant it.

He remembered Han glancing to the half-healed scar over his eye as he'd said the last. It was still visible even now, though much-faded. A dark mark which sliced through one eyebrow, cut deep by a blow from Vader's saber hilt. He had at least ten others across his body, from hilt and blade both, all inflicted by the man who stood before him in charged silence right now. Chances were, they wouldn't be the last.

So why was he here? What did he possibly think he could get out of this?

Know your enemies, he supposed.

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Vader remained still as those sharp, pale eyes glanced about the room then came back to him, taking him in as if seeing him for the first time…then Antilles frowned and glanced quickly away, leaving Vader at a loss as to what had been going through his mind in that moment, as the boy braced both physically and mentally, shields dropping into place.

Eyes narrowing beneath his mask, Vader wondered what this manipulative little Sith was up to now. Infinitely wary, but equally confident that he could hold his own, he waited, staying close so that his size and his bulk intimidated, though Antilles was accustomed to both, and didn't back down in the least.

They remained a few steps apart for long seconds, Vader left with the sense that, now that he was here, the boy was having second thoughts about whatever he had intended. He could almost see the hesitation in those pale eyes, so much like Kenobi's.

Aware of his scrutiny, the boy narrowed those eyes in consideration, then pursed his lips and lifted his chin slightly, and held out his hand.

In it was a small medical vial, half-filled crimson red. Vader looked at the vial without comment, waiting.

"A blood sample," Kenobi's son finally stated, voice tense. "You need to have someone you trust test it against your own—a new sample taken specifically for this, not one that's been stored or logged, or allowed to leave your sight at any time. And you need to do it in absolute secrecy."

Vader remained still, and eventually the boy half-shrugged, placing the vial on the console beside him.

"For?" Vader prompted at last.

He saw familiar defenses rise again after that momentary uncertainty, as the boy fell easily into old patterns at the mere sound of his voice, finding some of his lost poise. "Just test them side by side—complete breakdown."

Again the boy hesitated, then turned to leave, seeming to feel he had nothing more to say in that moment. Reaching the darkened corridor he paused without turning. "I'm sure when you see the results, you'll appreciate the importance of keeping this strictly between ourselves."

Beneath his mask, Vader let out a small smile. Oh, he had the boy now—finally had him at fault. "You are asking me to lie to the Emperor?" he challenged in a rumble.

The boy turned, voicing doubtful amusement at Vader's apparent reluctance, the picture of confidence—though as ever Vader could see just a fraction beneath his shields, and knew that right now, he was anything but. "You may do as you wish. But do so with an informed opinion."

'_Make your choice after you have the results,'_ was the obvious message, leaving Vader uneasy at just what Kenobi's son could possibly have which he believed could induce Vader to lie in order to protect him, of all people. Nothing—there was nothing existing which would induce him to protect the boy…though he'd do anything to bring him down.

Antilles disappeared into the dim shadows of the long hallway, and eventually, Vader heard the main entrance door slide open, then close. Alone, his eyes were drawn inexorably back to the small glass vial on the table. He lifted it, holding it aloft to see the ruby red liquid within...and somewhere, in the shadows at the depths of his soul, something stirred, subtle as a shiver. Anticipation, portent; the barest tremble on the wind which whispered of the hurricane to come.

Unsettled, he placed the glass vial back down and strode from the room.

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Han sat in the library for over an hour, waiting. Then he wandered through to the Red Room and watched the sun go down, still waiting. By the time his shift had ended, the kid still wasn't back, and Han was sitting in one of the seldom-used chairs in the Red Room, ankles crossed on the windowsill, head dropped back in frustration, once again cursing the fact that Luke was too used to the habit of telling nothing to anyone.

He'd even reflected on the fact himself, earlier; that the kid got all insular and secretive when he had things on his mind. He'd already stopped answering his comlink, and then Han had been stupid enough to just let him walk out of here without even…comlink!

Han stood up so suddenly that the chair toppled back loudly behind him. Leia; he'd gone to see Leia!

For a fraction of a second his mind raced to fathom whether that was good or bad. Maybe it was good…but then why hadn't he taken Han? Han always went with him—always.

Why would he do that—why would he go alone? For a scarlet second, he wondered if the kid had gone to bring her in…but no; Luke'd given Han his word, and he wouldn't go back on that. The danger was over anyway, the confrontation passed.

Abruptly he remembered the kid coming to his quarters after Bria Tharen's death, resigned and accepting of whatever punishment Han had cared to dole out, believing as ever that it was all his fault. The exact same attitude that he'd held with absolute conviction when he'd intended to face Palpatine after the destruction of the Death Star. He'd already admitted to Han that he left Kenobi alone knowing that the old man intended to face Vader…knowing what that meant. Had he gone to see Leia with that same belief—that this time, it was Kenobi's death that was all somehow his fault; the same certainty that there was a price to be paid, and he would be the one expected to pay it?

Leia had said that Kenobi was like a father…would she lash out? No—Jedi didn't do that, surely…but the old man had been everything to her. If she did lash out…would Luke let her? He'd let her go free yesterday…but had said to Han that it was the last time. That after that, the slate was clean, and he owed her nothing. Even if he went there intending to let her rail at him, as he had Han over Bria's death, how long before it escalated? How long before the threat became a little too real and the contrite kid became the hostile Sith?

"_A Jedi against a Sith?"_ He remembered the way that Luke had said that, innately confident of the outcome. Remembered the way he'd fought Vader, driven to a frenzy by fear and fury and grim determination, every last ounce of commitment consigned, lost completely to the moment. If something Leia did pushed him to that edge, if something she did triggered that kind of reaction…

His eyes scanned the endless crush of the ecumenopolis below, a sea of lights as the night had closed in, bright clusters here at the heights, falling away to the all-concealing darkness of the depths.

Shades…he'd meet her in the Shades, because that was where he'd met her every other time, and if he'd had to name a place over a comlink, he wouldn't have quoted specific names, he would have referenced somewhere they'd met before.

Han was striding from the room now, mind still rushing; how many places had they met? Less than half a dozen. Would he have picked the nearest, the most recent? Quietest, surely. If he expected trouble, it would have been the quietest.

By the time he reached the apartment door, he was already at a full-out run, no idea whether he was rushing to help Luke…or hold him back.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Luke walked through the Shades displaced from everything about him. Surrounded by vivid, incandescent clouds of people who laughed, flirted, and chattered their way through another night of frivolity, he was intensely aware that they existed one step removed from his own life…and he envied them for it. The ease with which they fluttered through the night, unaffected, unconcerned.

He slowed as he looked to the shadows of the alleyway, aware of her presence as a dark smudge against the night, simmering in wretched misery. What had been so warm and so sure the last time he'd touched it now seemed darkly embroiled; lost in its own bitter grief. Eventually he set forward, leaving the noise and the lights and the exuberance behind; he didn't belong there anyway.

He walked slowly down the alley, giving his eyes time to adjust to the light. As before, it hadn't been chosen randomly. It was a long, thin sliver of a strip which stretched the full depth of the buildings to either side, each easily ten stories high. Its length afforded a comfortable distance from the milling crowds beyond, ensuring that whatever happened in the far reaches of its shadowed depths would remain unseen. The tall buildings to either side were all commercial, with no windows to the darkened alleyway, their frontings looking out onto the main street beyond, and even those now closed, their business done for the day. Equidistant to either side of the long alleyway were the metal-grid steps which led up to the businesses in staggered flights, level by zigzagging level. Neon signs tethered to the front of the walkway balconies looked out onto the main street, their shuttered radiance cut in broken patterns through the mesh steps, irregular blinking reduced to the faintest glow, unable to reach into the somber shadows which engulfed the far end of the long Luke walked on.

Senses on edge now, he saw all this afresh, reappraised as a series of opportunities and possible pitfalls…then he dismissed his own paranoia, bringing his eyes back to the furthest shadows, knowing that Leia Skywalker would have retreated as far as she possibly could. He slowed when the light and the noise were a distant haze, and she took a step forward without ever leaving the gloom.

They stood for a time as the silence stretched taut and Luke remained still, waiting. Though she had hidden her presence in the Force, as ever, he could sense it as a subtle furl of fractured grief. If she wanted someone to shout at, to rail at, then he could take that. If she wanted someone to hate, he could be that too. He was only a half-step short of that with himself, most days. There was little she could call him that hadn't been hurled at him from elsewhere, or that he didn't know of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said evenly.

"And that's supposed to make it alright?" she grated, voice low and hoarse.

"No. It simply means I'm sorry."

As she came forward another step Luke looked into her face, pale and drawn, her eyes still red…and it brought home to him how recent all this was. So much had happened for Luke since Kenobi's death. He'd been cornered and dragged back to Palpatine by stormtroopers, forced to lie to his Master, to shout Vader down in defense…he'd admitted the truth to Han about Indo, he'd turned on Ashtor… He'd had the blood sample verified, to reveal a terrible truth.

Kenobi's death seemed a distant fact to him now…yet it was little more than a day ago.

For Leia Skywalker, probably the longest day of her life.

"You did this." There was such accusation in her words, such raw, reined-back rage. "You planned all of it."

"How could I have? I didn't even know Kenobi was on Coruscant." His own voice was flat and weary, drained of emotion. The last thirty hours had hardly been easy for him, either.

"You knew he was coming. You'd asked to meet him."

"I didn't know he'd come here."

"Is that a fact?" Her sense was twisted through with cutting disbelief. "Because you didn't seem so very surprised when I told you."

"I'd worked it out by then." He was careful not to mention Han, not wanting to involve him.

Her head tipped. "So you're saying you did know before you met me—and therefore did have time to set up a plan with Vader."

"I'm saying I'm sorry that Kenobi made the choices he did…but they were his choices. I tried to dissuade him as much as you did. You saw that."

"And how long had you spent before I came in there, persuading him to stay? To face…"

Her voice broke as she blinked quickly, visibly suffering, and Luke felt a pang strike deep within him—of what, he didn't know. Empathy, perhaps. Regret. Rare permission within her undisguised grief, for him to feel something himself… Then anger flared again, tinged with fear, because if he allowed it of himself even once, then he would pay a thousand times with each new order his Master gave him, until it bled away and he was safely blank once more.

Far safer to remain dispassionate and uninvolved. To simply do as he was ordered and never look any closer. But that was being stolen away from him in increments, caught up in the fallout of too many close events. He had no idea what to say—how to offer any kind of comfort. He'd neither received nor been required to give it before.

"You should know that the man who gave Vader the opportunity to find me, and therefore your Master, is dead."

She lifted her head, voice low. "How very convenient. An unknown scapegoat."

"He was informing on me."

"And you're claiming that you didn't know?" She was dismissive again; derisive.

"Yes, I knew—but the fact, not the details. I didn't know that Vader was following me."

"Liar!"

"He's Sith."

"So are you!"

Luke stared, struggling to understand why Kenobi's death was so completely his fault in Leia's eyes. He'd expected her to accuse him, expected to have to defend his actions and take some of the blame—but not all. Why wouldn't she hold Vader responsible, too? He'd take her anger and her accusations, but he'd be damned if he'd take the full blame—not to save Vader's hide. "Sith can mask their presence, from each other as well as from Jedi—you know that. Vader's wanted to kill Kenobi for a long time. He's tried to track him down for years, but he never could."

"Until you came along, and gained him that opportunity."

Her hand went to the small of her back as she straightened—and Luke knew what she reached for, unseen. He tilted his head in warning. "Don't even think it."

"You led Obi-Wan's killer right to him—and you used me to do it."

He noted only now that she didn't wear the thick, heavy cloak she always had previously, and cursed his own inattentiveness. She'd come here looking for a fight; retribution for her Master's death from the man she thought had engineered it. Justice, she probably believed. If she'd come here to duel, her cloak would slow her down, and she knew it.

"I'll say it again; I didn't know that Vader was following me."

"To a venue that _you_ named!"

"I _suggested_. I said at the time that you could refuse if you wanted." Without his realizing, his own hand had moved to rest just behind his hip, fingers lose. "If I'd wanted Kenobi dead then believe me, I would have simply killed him myself, when I walked into that room with him."

To Luke it seemed a reasonable clarification, because it was true—he'd gone there looking for that fight, but on meeting Kenobi he couldn't go through with it. He'd tried—truth be told, in those first minutes, he'd tried to wring up sufficient anger to turn on the old man…but he couldn't. He hadn't. What he'd said was the truth; if he'd wanted to kill Kenobi, he would have done so.

But he knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say—

She let out a yell and her saber jumped to her hand, coming round in a wide, wild sweep at neck-level, more an expression of her outrage than a measured blow. Luke leaned back to let it pass a hand's-breadth from his face—but his own blade ignited in answer, coming behind it to bat it down when it had passed, putting him instantly inside her guard. She took a hasty step back to free her blade but Luke held contact, maintaining pressure as he stepped in, to show her that she was playing with fire; that he could have taken her head from her shoulders at the very first exchange.

It was an aggressive response when he could have simply stepped back; a prelude to a duel instead of an avoidance, and Leia rallied at the threat, slipping her blade free by dropping it vertically, hilt up. The tip sizzled into the ground, and as it came free she made the only response possible when Luke was this close; she angled her body and pulled her blade in a sideward arc to spin in for a downward blow from above, more instinct that calculated riposte.

Luke was already placed to catch it, knocking it aside with all the power of his shoulders and leaving her wide open. He lifted his hand, fingers splayed, and she staggered back three fast steps with a breathless gasp, the air knocked from her body.

Closing his hand to a fist, he lifted one finger in a growled warning, the first sparks of hostility flaring. "Stop. I needed you before…I don't now. That's the only warning you'll get."

"Needed me to get to Obi-Wan!" Her voice was pain and accusation and bitter fury.

"Yes—but not for that, not to kill him…"

"Liar! All you do is lie!"

Luke straightened—not at the accusation: it was true often enough—even now, in part—but at her sense of outrage, of self-pitying misery. She'd had everything, every opportunity, whilst he'd had nothing but divisive neglect. What might he have been, given her life? The unfairness of it—his private, bitter realization of how appalling his own life really was—bit deep. "Do you think you're the only one who bleeds?"

"You have no blood," she hissed. "Acid runs through your veins!"

"I protected you! I lied to my Master to keep you safely anonymous. My own Master! You have no idea what he'd do if he knew—what he'd put me through! I broke every law in helping you—and Kenobi—and all he did was rip everything I knew away. Every truth. I don't even know who I am any more!"

"I can tell you exactly who you are."

"No, you can tell me what I am. But I can tell you that myself, there's no mystery there." His anger was rising now; indignation at her accusations, her unwillingness to listen. He'd actually tried to do the right thing here, and this was what he got. That was the fact of his life; the hard truth. "Everyone around me dies—everyone. I never made a secret of that. Darkness and death," he said, absolutely sure. "That's what my Master says I am—what I always will be." At least in that his Master hadn't lied.

She let out another yell as her blade came round with incredible speed—but skewed, still barely controlled, driven by grief and the need to act—to do _something_ in retaliation; he knew that. Which didn't make her any less dangerous.

She came in again with a fast blow to his side which Luke caught easily, knocking it aside. Another to the opposite side, twisting her wrists to make the turn; fast, darting blows, in and out in seconds, light on her feet, pushing for an error.

He dropped his blade a fraction too low to draw her in, and when she took the feint, pushing forward with a stab, Luke stepped into rather than away from the blow, catching her blade close to the hilt to knock it upward and to the side. It was a blow that would never have worked against Vader or his Master, but Leia didn't have the strength to counter it and was forced into a hasty withdrawal, loosing her saber to a one-handed grip for fear of losing it as Luke kept the momentum of his counter-blow pushing outward in a wide swing.

She backstepped once more, instantly resetting her weight, pulling her hand back to hold her saber vertically, body atilt, already poised for the next exchange.

They were finding their focus now, defining pace and style as those first wild swings settled into a measured duel, each pushing their opponent, looking for weaknesses, playing their strengths, finding their tempo.

Luke had always been fast, he knew that. Having spent a lifetime duelling bigger and stronger opponents, speed and dexterity had been his only advantages, and he'd learned long ago to tell a break from a feint and to turn any chance, no matter how small, into an opportunity. But this was something completely different. Because in the many hundreds of duels he'd faced, first against Palpatine then later against Vader, he'd never once in all his years, had to face an opponent from the position of greater strength and size. Leia was barely more than shoulder height to him, obviously physically weaker…but this was how she had always fought—that much was clear.

She was incredibly dextrous, making up for her lack of strength by nimble moves, darting in with fast blows only when she knew she had an opening, then disengaging and withdrawing the moment it looked like Luke would maneuver the fight to a position where strength would come into play.

He had no idea how to fight in that context—no idea how to engage an enemy who wouldn't be pulled in to more than two or three consecutive blows. Vague memories surfaced of being eleven and twelve, when his Master had organized training duels between himself and Mara Jade, to equip him for this possibility. But even then she'd been taller than him, older by a year, and he'd been small and slight beneath his Master's neglect. He had no idea how to do this—how to duel from the stronger position. How did he fight…himself?

The answer was obvious, of course; he needed to fight Leia as Vader fought him. Needed to back her into a corner to limit her ability to dodge or back off, to keep his saber blade in the higher position, always moving forward and bearing down. But it was hard, to discard all that he'd known; every move, every trick. His only advantage was in recognizing them early, as they were levelled against him.

But she was learning—they both were.

She came forward again with three fast blows, looking to lock her saber over his as Luke stepped round, eyes on the wider picture, thoughts on those first few moments when he'd walked down the alley taking in its geography; opportunities to be used.

He sidestepped without making a blow; another step, another, before she pulled her own saber back, realizing that he was playing her now. Her eyes glanced to the far side of the alleyway, a mirror-image of what was behind her, letting her know that she was too close to the underside of the nearer stairwell—too close to being cornered. If she broke to the right she'd have to move towards him to get around it, and to the left, the solid stretch of the side wall gave her too few opportunities to maneuver.

Luke angled his saber to her left, waiting to catch the blow that she'd have to make to that side in order to break free. It came low, as he'd known it would, but instead of breaking left, she brought her body round with the blade and stepped in so that they stood almost side to side, twisting as she did so, so that her back was close to Luke's right shoulder, her blade skimming free of his own. Loosing her saber to one hand she twisted about his left side, nimble enough to duck beneath the edge of the stairwell as her blade pulled free.

Luke moved his own blade to one-handed to snatch at her back as she passed, her saber slowed only slightly as it dragged through the edge of the metal stairwell. She continued the turn three-sixty to bring her about, blade low, the twist snatching her free of Luke's hold. His saber came round in a wide arc to follow her as he turned, snagging against the edge of the stairwell with barely a drag as hers had, but enough to mean that the blow that would have caught her instead only snicked on the edge of her tunic in passing—

But as she finished her turn it brought her back round inside his own guard, Luke's blade low and to the right, all speed and power spent. She swung in at shoulder-height with her first dangerous blow of the duel, forcing Luke to jump awkwardly back, undefended.

He caught his breath as her blade brushed his shoulder, burning jacket, shirt and flesh in a humming hiss, though it made no greater contact. Immediately he caught his weight, pushing back to alter his center of balance as he lunged in with his blade still low, catching her saber in a roundhouse defense that knocked it away as he yelled out, furious at himself, at her…

He had his center again now and she backed off rapidly, knowing that she'd have nothing to counter the heavy blow to come, still moving to open ground.

She glanced once to the stairwell she'd cleared; again to the final one behind her, to be sure she wouldn't be caught again—

And Luke's own eyes went to it, still fuming at his slip—his assumption that because he couldn't have fit beneath the edge of the stairwell, neither could she. Blind fury fired as he lifted his hand, drawing the Force to him in a surge and hurling it out, fingers outstretched. The stairwell behind Leia wrenched from the wall in a cloud of cracked duracrete and powdered plaster, barely jerking as it ripped free from the walkway at its top, a frenzy of twisting metal.

She turned, straining as her hand came up, trying to bring sufficient counterforce to even slow it. With a grating shriek of stressed metal the stairwell buckled, and Luke tore it apart to gouge it into the ground either side of her, twisting as it crumpled like paper. She took one hasty step back then jumped above the tangle, landing three steps closer, but with her eyes beyond him.

Instantly realizing, Luke turned to glance to the distant street behind them in recognition of the noise they'd made. The slim ribbon of bright light and raucous noise continued, oblivious and unabated, as both Jedi and Sith crouched, wary, waiting for a reaction… But nothing came, and Luke turned slowly back, straightening as he did so, eyes and attention on the battle once more.

He could have brought the whole stairwell down on top of her, or could have brought the folding ends together and compressed them about her—hadn't she known that? Luke hesitated a fraction of a second; hadn't he?

A moment of doubt burned at his own misgivings, and he brought his hand out, one finger lifted. "Don't…don't try to fight me."

Her chin came up in defiance and he knew that she didn't understand—didn't understand that he was warning her, not threatening her—didn't want to try, in this moment.

He wasn't like others; too much was long-since lost, and his Master had rushed to fill the gaping chasms. Too many nights as a terrified child endured absolutely alone, until part of him had learned that the only way not to fear the monster hiding in the darkness was to become it. That grinding fear which had made him stand when his Master had dragged him to his feet after a beating…that primal ability to survive. To do what he had to do.

Palpatine hadn't simply taught that child to endure, he'd ground survival into it day in, day out, in every lesson—every breath. Luke felt the monster's icy, disjointed calm immerse him now; felt it wrap about him and take over, bringing the moment into crystal clarity, reducing it to its most basic law; survive. Do what you have to—

And as Leia Skywalker came forward again, those first clumsy, grief-driven, uncoordinated blows tightening into a serious threat, he could feel it building within him; everything he'd been taught. Everything he held back. Everything he was.

That resilience, that innate instinct to survive, by any means. "If you fight me, I can't control it, understand?"

"Nothing is ever your fault, is it." She was already coming forward, both shaken and spurred on by his offensive with the stairwell, clearly determined not to give him the time to try a similar stunt.

For a few blows he fell back as she launched a lightning-fast offensive, a curtain of blue light blinding him as he parried, focus narrowing to the duel, the blade, the instant. He _knew_ this; it was years of repetition, every move polished, every flaw punished, every single lesson hard learned. This was what he did—what he had always done—what he _knew_. Be pro-active, not reactive. Create your own chances; lead the fight. Curb your opponent's strengths and play to their weaknesses. Beneath the rising attack it became easier to disassociate himself from the details; who he was fighting, why he was here, what he had originally intended.

Only the duel remained. This opponent; her skills, her weaknesses. How to use them both.

She was fast but not experienced. How many opportunities did a Jedi have to actually duel? All her practice had honed her speed and her technique, but she'd been taught by the book, by someone with experience, but staid and traditional; this riposte to this offensive, this stance counters this swing. Luke had been taught the same, in his early training…but he'd also been taught that rules were made to be broken, and any move that gained the advantage was fair—so the moment he'd done something unexpected, she'd gaped, uncertain. She took greater risks when he pushed forward because she knew now that he was stronger and equally as fast as her, and she knew she was trapped in the wrong side of a dead-end alley, where every step she took back limited her ability to maneuver.

_She'd come here looking for a fight; retribution_…his earlier words rang again in his head as his mind sought the advantage… She'd been so sure, so committed to that duel, that she'd already taken off her cloak…

_Committed…_

Crouching down, one hand to the ground, Luke paused momentarily to look at her. "Come and get me." He sprang upwards, using the Force to gain height so that he reached the first level of balconied walkways to his left, landing lightly in a crouch, one hand to the rail in the narrow space.

Leia turned and ran for the stairwell that led to his level, and for a moment Luke thought that she'd actually use it to get to him, such was her eagerness, placing herself in a nearly impossible-to-defend position. He held back, knowing that the stuttering staccato glare of the neon signs which were bolted to the walkway balconies behind him to advertise the various eateries at this level cast glaring, shuttered bands of vivid color, rendering him a broken silhouette and forcing Leia to scowl as she came forward. Hoping to draw her on he remained still in invitation, but as she neared the top she realized her error and Luke braced as she dropped her saber to the side and brought her hand out. The walkway's sectioned steel flooring panel bucked up beneath his feet, knocking him two staggering steps back. As he steadied himself, one hand to the rail beside him, the next panel began to wrench, but this time he was ready, and slammed it back with a downwards push of the Force.

But it had bought Leia what she needed. She'd reached the top of the stairwell and was coming forward at a run, saber held before her in the limited space like a lance. Amazed at her nerve, Luke still didn't shirk back but instead waited until the blade had almost reached him before sidestepping and driving her blade down one-handed with his own. All her momentum travelling forward, she slipped nimbly past, the two so close that they could have touched in the enclosed walkway, each blade held tightly down for its wielder's protection. Luke took the opportunity to shove her hard, knocking her off-balance and onto the handrail, and further past himself. She probably thought she'd done well to get past him, if she'd thought about it at all. Thought she'd sidestepped a strike, to make it up the stairwell unharmed. She hadn't even realized that with every step, she lowered her options. Lessened her space.

Opportunities: use your surroundings. Hers were becoming more and more restricted now—which was a bad thing if you were relying on your speed against a stronger opponent. If she had an ounce of sense, she'd try to get off the walkway. If she'd had any experience whatsoever, she wouldn't have come up here at all. He set forward, saber slightly ahead of him, a barrier which swept the width of the walkway in easy strokes, forcing her to retreat blindly backwards along the restricted walkway, hemmed in by high handrails to her left and the building itself to her right.

At the corner she slipped momentarily out of sight, turning onto the front of the walkway where it overhung the main street three levels down. Luke set forward at a run to try to maintain contact, but when he rounded the corner she was already gone, and with the high, close-set tubes of the back of the neon signs forming a virtual cage to the outside of the balcony, she'd had only one choice to take; into one of the stores, limiting her space further. Smiling coolly as he walked forward, he flinched back from the stuttering flicker of the neon signs which were bolted to the handrail, runs of arrows flashing in alternate red, green and white, advertising their wares to potential customers, and guiding them up. This close, the strobing signs drowned out the actinic glow of the lightsabers, so that Luke kept his ignited as he moved along the walkway, glancing momentarily between them and onto the crowded main street, his senses strained to their limit trying to separate Leia's half-hidden presence from the teeming mass of crowds just levels below, oblivious to the spectacle barely above their eyeline, where lives displaced from their self-absorbed noise played out a private, deadly game in a parallel existence of high stakes.

Luke stalked past storefronts long-since closed down for the night, their doors bolted, their windows barred—and froze, as he heard a voice shout his name. Glancing back along the walkway to the point where it opened into the alleyway, he saw a figure—Han! Han was standing at the entrance to the alleyway, the angle setting him sideways-on to the flashing neon, so that he must have seen Luke's and Leia's brief struggle of moments ago, their sabers visible from the alley itself. Almost immediately on the back of Luke's shock that Han had found him, came his realization that he had met Leia here just days earlier, with Han. For a brief second the desperation in Han's shout touched Luke, and he hesitated, turning briefly back to the doors ahead of him…but as he did so, he saw that the next door was just fractionally ajar, stressed splinters of its forced surround intermittently highlighted in harsh neon light—

And he set forward, focused again, hand lifting to throw a jarring Force-push to the door which swung violently back on its hinges, ensuring that nobody was waiting just beyond…then stepped inside.

He glanced about the room, holding his saber low and to his side until his eyes grew used to the lower light levels and he made out its laid tables and neatly-placed chairs, in readiness for tomorrow's trade. Standing perfectly still, it would have been easy for another to have missed her entirely as Leia held her place to the far side of the darkened room, her lightsaber doused. For Luke, she shone brighter than any of the strobing lights outside, a flare within his honed senses. Briefly, his eyes took in the peripheral details of the room—opportunities and threats—without ever leaving her. For an eating house it was of average size…for a duel it was restrictive, its ceiling low, its only exit directly behind her, and that into a smaller room still—a kitchen.

She knew she'd been cornered.

As he took his first step she crouched and half-turned away—

In the semi-darkness he sensed rather than saw it; a heavy stock-pot from the kitchen launched through the wide serving hatch towards him, and impacted on the wall behind him when Luke ducked, throwing out a cloud of fine plaster and chippings. Another followed almost immediately, then a third, its angle lowered mid-throw. Luke yanked the chair beside him across and up, and the heavy pan almost ripped it from his grip on impact.

Rolling, he wedged his back to the wall, momentarily abandoning his lightsaber to bring his hands up, fingers splayed—

And every chair and table in the room was pushed forward at speed, scraping across the big room to crush in a clattering jumble against the far wall where she stood. He heard her cry out in surprise, but sensed nothing else.

When he stood the room was empty, and the swinging door which led to the kitchen was half-ajar, forced back by the tables piled up against it.

For a brief moment, the sound of Han running along the balcony outside penetrated Luke's thoughts, forcing him to turn about, hand raised. The door slammed shut against Han, its only surviving lock, probably unengaged earlier and so still intact, rammed home into the keep high up to its outer edge, barring it. Han hammered on the door as he reached it, shouting his name, but Luke had already set forward, his still-lit lightsaber whirling about in a bright amber swirl to launch forward and land solidly in his grip as he deactivated it, forced to slow to climb over his own handiwork. Slipping in the darkness and the uneven footing of the crowded tables, he made for the wide service hatch, crouching to clamber through—

The blue blade lit bright in the darkness and came down in a sweeping blow, forcing Luke to throw his weight to the side and land awkwardly, rolling across a chopping block as the blade hummed past him in a flare of light.

He landed clumsily as the wheeled chopping block rolled away beneath him, to come up against a brief blare of shock almost dead ahead. Igniting his saber he brought it round, catching the hilt in a loud, jarring clatter against the underside of a worktable in the restricted space…and for a brief fraction of a second, he saw the wide, all-black eyes of a Pau'an crouched in the corner, an unwilling witness to the rarest of sights.

His blade was caught by Leia's from above, and knocked back from the shocked Pau'an, forcing Luke to throw himself to the side, turning to kick the wheeled chopping block out behind him as he did so, to push Leia back. The azure blade pulled away, so she must have staggered a step or two, giving Luke enough time to clamber up and get his own saber before him.

Leia was backing up further along the length of floor between two of three long, metal-topped workbenches which ran the width of the room, each divided in its center-point to form a single walkway. In the limited space, trying to find the clearance to fight, she knew that she'd been backed into an arena where strength had the advantage over dexterity. Glancing to the side as Luke came forward, she raised her left hand, giving him enough warning to look to his right as a set of plasteel shelves set between the end of two workbenches came alive and flung themselves forwards, their contents flying free.

He brought his own hands around as he threw out a hasty Force-fed wall of defense, his saber, blade down, slicing vertically through the workbench before him with a clatter of crockery. The plasteel unit itself and the contents of its upper shelves were stopped, but heavy stock-pans from the lowest shelf hit his knees and ankles at speed, driving them painfully from under him and forcing him to grab at the workbench to prevent his fall, his saber dragging a fraction as it cut its path free, knocking stacked plates to the ground in the darkness about Luke's feet.

Leia was there instantly, her blade coming down where Luke's hands were, and so forcing him to push backwards, taking his weight on his heels as he staggered across the crockery, slipping as it slid beneath his weight—then he was clear, and he launched forwards with a yell. His saber, held one-handed, cut a wide backhanded arc which must have taken a hank of hair, so close did it come to her shoulder.

With the initiative, Luke scrabbled clear of the pots and pans which tried to trip him, angling his body to take his saber two-handed as he advanced down the central walkway for a powerful backswing which Leia blocked where she stood to one side, unable to retreat, forced to take her saber hilt in an awkward grip with one wrist twisted forward and the other twisted back; the only way she knew she'd have enough force to block the blow.

But she had no room to disengage, and so was forced to maintain blade contact as Luke powered forward, taking a step closer to trap her away from that single main walkway and into the narrower one between workbenches, gaining more ground as Leia struggled to maneuver in the limited space, her back forced against the wide stretch of worktop.

To the corner of Luke's vision, the Pau'an saw his chance and scrabbled up to run for the exit from the kitchen…only to halt as he swung the door back and came against a wall of tables and chairs, buckled and crushed together. When he then began to scramble to the wide serving hatch, Luke had to disengage, dividing his attention to risk turning about to throw one hand out. The Pau'an, resolutely clambering through the hatch, was yanked back into the kitchen and down to the floor, where he fell heavily.

"Stay down!" Luke yelled, not wanting to lose sight of the being who had witnessed all this.

He turned quickly back, expecting an incoming blow, but Leia had used the time to roll herself backwards over the worktop, whose far side she now stood at, her hands resting on its edge. Realizing, Luke made a desperate jump upwards, gathering the Force beneath it to gain height. A second later the whole workbench came grinding forward, slamming into the one behind Luke as he came down onto its surface, struggling to hold his balance.

But he was now on the high-ground—and they both knew it. Leia backpedalled along the gap between the last two benches, bringing her saber up defensively as Luke set forwards. He made two high downwards blows as she tried to back clear, the second with enough power to knock her into the side wall as she countered it. Luke landed on the ground between her and the main walkway with his feet already planted, and brought his saber through a wide horizontal arc, catching her blue blade and powering it back one-handed into the wall beside her without slowing.

Both blades passed through the wall as if it were not there, but Leia's hand about her hilt hit the rough, unforgiving duracrete with force, and Luke sensed the jolt of pain shock through her as he pushed his own hilt onward to pin her hand.

Inside her guard with his own saber, he knew she was wide open for a backward swing from his blade which would have taken her head cleanly from her shoulders. As it was, he pulled his free hand up and back to deliver a heavy backhand blow across her jaw instead, with enough force that her knees went from under her and she collapsed down.

To her credit she didn't let go of her saber, though Luke's momentary shock that she would go down after so little abuse bought her a second in which her hand came to her face, where her lip had began to pump blood. And her shock finally fired something else in him; a deep burn started within his ribcage and flared out as momentary guilt so strong as to stop him cold…

Then experience took over, because he knew that one blow like that wouldn't even slow him against Vader. She still held tenaciously to her saber—and to Luke, that made her a threat. He ground his hilt forwards against her hand.

"Let it go—let it go!"

When she didn't he pulled his saber briefly back to deliver a hard downward blow to the barked and bleeding knuckles of her clasped hand with the heel of his hilt. The shock of it opened her fingers by reflex and her saber fell free, dragging the blade back through the wall to deactivate as it fell. Luke bent to take it in the confined space…

Crouched down face to face with Leia as she remained still, one hand to her face, the other dropping to the floor, he felt again that rush of guilt…and with no threat to disperse it, this time it wouldn't fade or be willed away. He faltered, feeling compelled to say something, though he had no idea how to explain.

"I'm… We couldn't fight, you understand?" He was still breathing heavily, but the all-consuming heat of conflict was already waning, leaving him cold. "It could only have escalated, and I didn't want to k… I had to stop it."

"Kill me now—get it over with, because if you don't, one day I'll kill you." She lifted her head, fire in her eyes.

"Don't," he said, quiet and very sure. "Don't say that, because I will. You have no idea how easy it would be."

She let out a half-laugh, part mocking, part frustration; knowledge that she'd lost her chance. But it was still bound up in that same anguish, that same all-consuming sense of loss, a pain more real than her bleeding face or broken knuckles.

Luke stared, pulled into some kind of empathy despite himself…and his hand, still tight about his saber, loosened, letting it drop slightly as he voiced in a whisper. "I swear I didn't know Vader was there."

"You dropped your shields so that he could pinpoint you—I sensed you do it!"

Luke shook his head. "I dropped my shields because Kenobi asked me to, you know that."

"And you're telling me that Vader just happened to be able to pinpoint you in that time, with no help from you?"

"Yes!"

"I don't believe you."

His saber dropped another inch, close to her but no threat any more. "Vader…Vader has a close connection to me. I've grown up around him. He'd need only moments t—"

"Because you're both Sith!"

Luke's saber, still lit, was facing away from either of them now. They were both vulnerable, both undefended. "Because…because he's my father."

The jolt of shock that burst out from her made his own heart miss a beat in empathy as she stared, eyes wide. "That's…that can't... I don't believe you."

Luke frowned, taken off guard by her reaction, his own heart still pounding. "It's the truth."

"No, that's impossible!"

"Kenobi told me."

She stared, all her anger swallowed up within this sudden chasm of bewilderment. "Well then why didn't he tell me?"

"Why should he? Nobody else knows, even here."

Completely embroiled in her stunned wonder, he didn't even notice Han rush up behind him. Didn't know until Han grabbed at the rear of his shirt just below the collar and hauled him bodily backwards, pulling him another three steps and into the central aisle before Luke got his feet to the ground, struggling to curb the overwhelming instinct to simply hurl Han bodily back against the wall with the Force. Still, he brought his arm up fast, elbow out. The blow hit Han hard in the chest, and he let out a gasp but still didn't let Luke go, yanking him about, lightsaber swinging dangerously as Han yelled into his face.

"What the hell's wrong with you! Did you come here to—"

Luke struggled to wrench free, ripping his shirt as Han fought to hold him, powering him back along the workbench until Luke hit the edge of the far wall with jarring power, Han still yelling in his face. "Luke—Luke!"

He turned just in time to see the briefest blur of Leia's form at the broken rear window as she disappeared into the night.

Twisting, Luke managed to get his elbow above Han's hold and used the heel of his free hand to launch a blow to Han's shoulder at the same time that he wrenched down, yanking himself free. Deactivating his saber, Luke rolled across the workbench top towards the window, almost falling as Han made another grab for him, thinking Luke was trying to pursue her. He stopped at the window though, only leaning out into the night to see her already two stories down, running along a narrow balcony and stopping at its edge to make a jump to another, two levels down…then she was gone, following it around the corner of the building into another deep alleyway…

Luke turned…to see Han, fury in his eyes. They stared at each other across the decimated room, Han's face hard, his lips narrowed into a thin line…then he spun about and set off at a run back out of the kitchen, pushing through the narrow clearance of yanked-back tables at the kitchen entry—hoping to catch up to Leia, Luke knew.

For long seconds he remained still, breathing heavily, coming down from the duel…from the strange buzz of profound empathy at its end, before Leia Skywalker had fled. Slowly his surroundings bled in about him, and he realized the demolished kitchen and restaurant beyond, narrow burned slashes which gouged the wreckage and debris telling too clear a story. Still wired by the displaced calm that he'd had ground into him over the years, he calculated in seconds the possible outcomes, and how best to work within them…then walked coolly over to the kitchen's polished cooking burners. He opened all eight and stood, watching them hiss for a while, then slowly backed out across the room, the smell of the cooking fuel becoming heady as it flooded the space.

As he walked through the narrow path between the tangle of tables and chairs that Han must have dragged aside to get in, Luke saw again the terrified Pau'an, who'd inched slowly clear of the inner room. Backing up to the wall, the Pau'an remained still, eyes flicking between Luke and the hissing burner taps. Still possessed of the buzzing calm that had taken him early in the duel, Luke knew damn well that he was looking at a liability which needed to be taken care of—permanently. Deviating his path just slightly, he took a hank of the being's creased clothes and dragged him to the exit with him. Closing the door behind them, he stood on the twisted, half-wrenched-free floor of the metal walkway, gaze on the all-black eyes of the Pau'an who had seen far too much…

Foolish, to even think such a thing; his Master would laugh in his face for such weakness, Luke, knew, as he stared at the terrified man, not more than a year or two older than himself.

He dragged the unresisting Pau'an on by the scruff of his clothes, walking round the corner from the main street and hauling him about to come to a halt at the side wall of the eatery. The Pau'an pressed back, eyes on Luke's lightsaber, and Luke stared into wide, glassy black eyes set into a pale face, the deeply-inset vertical lines which naturally marked his skin now creased by undisguised fear as Luke pressed the toggle to reactivate his saber, feeling its familiar kick of power as the amber blade came forth.

It was strange, what came to Luke's mind in that moment; the insignificance of this one anonymous life, the clear and undeniable logic which dictated that to let the one being who had seen the duel live, was a gaping mistake…

The memory of just how much he'd envied the anonymous crowds whom he'd slipped between earlier, never once feeling part of.

His Master, standing inches from his face, fingers wrapped about Luke's arm, nails digging painfully into his flesh after Luke, barely more than eleven, had killed on command: "_Never hesitate. Hesitate and you've already lost. Hesitate, and I'm wasting my time trying to teach you. Hesitate and you're useless—worse than that. You're a hindrance. An embarrassment. Never, ever hesitate. _

The body-blow memory of the moment that he'd killed Ashtor; of the sickened pall which had pressed in and cloaked about him, collapsing something deep within with that familiar dense weight of...something. Some faint, fragile, unjustifiable sentiment that could never be allowed—not to him.

The Pau'an stared, chest frozen, eyes wide…

Luke thought briefly of Han, but in this moment even that didn't matter. All that was left was himself, and the youth with the all-black eyes. Luke stared, seeing himself in their glassy reflection, surrounded by absolute darkness…

"Go home," he whispered. The Pau'an stared as Luke released his hold of him and lifted his free hand to tap one finger to his own lips in both request and warning. Understanding, the youth nodded vigorously then sidestepped, still pressed against the wall. Two steps clear, he turned about and half-stumbled, half-ran down the remains of the metal staircase as Luke watched, curious at his own behavior. The barest twitch of a tentative smile came to his lips for one brief moment…

Then he turned about and plunged his lightsaber into the side wall. The growling flare as the gasses trapped on its other side ignited shook the building, the force of the explosion sufficient to bulge the permacrete blockwork to its side where Luke stood, and shatter the windows to the front of the eatery, fragmenting the flashing neon signs strapped to the outside of the walkway in front of its length, the bright, expanding bloom removing all evidence before it doused the main street into dark pandemonium.

Deactivating his saber, Luke walked from the alleyway and past the burning shopfront into the night.

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Stood before the windows of the Red Room in his quarters, Luke watched the long night bleed off into the dull stillness which always laid heavy before dawn, with no sign of Han.

Would he return at all? Probably. But so much was changing, and despite all that Han had said, Luke knew that he was still losing Han's friendship…simply because Han was going down a road that Luke couldn't follow, in being with Leia and in questioning the Empire. He'd tried to hide both from Luke, of course, and perhaps if things had been different they could have continued to act as if each didn't know, and the status-quo could have been left at that; just a few more facts which neither ever addressed—Force knew, there were enough of those in Luke's life.

But it couldn't be that way, not with Han. Simply because Han wouldn't let it; couldn't let things be, even if the outcome could only be damaging or straight-out dangerous. Strange, that it was how they'd met, was what had somehow welded and held them together…and it would be what eventually tore them apart. Luke could survive among secrets and compromise—it was how he lived—but Han…he was trying, so even by being here, he was changing—being forced to change. The very traits Luke valued in him, he knew he was extinguishing, by asking him to stay. And in return, in trying to be what Han asked of him, the concessions that Luke had long since surrendered to in order to simply survive here, were being equally and painfully relinquished. And unlike Han, Luke had no luxury of being able to walk away. His Master had long-since made that crystal clear.

The comlink at his hip pipped quietly and he pulled it free, thankful for the interruption…then sighed, feeling his shoulders slump. Leia Skywalker, again. She had commed six times in the last hour since the duel, though what was left to say, he didn't know.

He stared for long seconds…then opened his hand and brought the Force to bear. It required barely a sliver; he could collapse a snub-nose fighter around its pilot—this was nothing at all…and everything. Ridiculously easy, and one of the most difficult things he had ever done.

The comlink crushed into itself with barely a noise, compressing to a tangle of twisted debris as its single light faded and died—and with it, these brief, wild few weeks of recklessness.

Because this was all too hard—this friendship with Han, this futile attempt to step beyond what he knew. What he was. It was too hard to do alone, and it was too much to risk, that Han might just stay, when so much pulled him away now. Luke knew that. The man who had promised that he would stay, no matter what, was already absent.

He stood for a while and watched the distant streams of traffic until they blurred in his vision, bright lines in the darkness. About him, the dour-painted rooms held their own particular sullen silence in these early hours, their stillness stifling. He hated these hours, when his mind turned inwards. They reminded him of the crushing silence of the Throne Room; of hunching in terror in some corner of the vast, cavernous space whilst hulking shadows crawled and writhed with a life of their own, and he'd prayed for someone to come—anyone…save his Master.

He remembered too much, with the perfect crystal clarity that only the Force could summon.

It was now, if he was awake, that he would generally head out into the city, in search of the raucous, animated noise of the cantinas, or the hypnotic, grinding beat of the music in back rooms where you could buy sanity and oblivion in neatly rolled sticks. Anything to break the silence which he carried within like a scar on his soul.

Sighing, Luke dug his hands thoughtlessly into the pockets of the hide jacket he still wore…and pulled out a small packet.

It was the sample that Lind had given him; Snow and Ruby cross-strain. Luke stared at it for long moments, feeling his mouth dry and his heart beat faster…

Walking through to his room, he dragged his mattress back and rifled through tangled sheets until he found what he wanted—an old and crumpled pack of scarlet papers, only three left. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, it was so very easy to pack and roll the spice stick despite the tremble to his hand—as if no time had passed since the last…in the greater scheme of things, that was probably true.

He put it to his lips…and paused, taking it out again to study it. Loosing a long sigh, he looked past it and across the broken shadows of his empty room, to the wall at its far side…to the drift of sketches that had slowly begun to accumulate there. A distant light from some unknown source outside flashed across them, highlighting the faces of those who'd come to mean something in this pitiful excuse for a life. Indo, with barely a smile on his face, Palpatine, glaring in judgment, Bail and Breha Organa, eyes wide in fear. Vader, Solo.

Solo. He'd pulled Luke this far back from the pit…but that monster in the darkness that was all of Luke's tangled past still had its claws entrenched, and it was weighing him down and dragging him back, and he knew all too well that to struggle would only hurt him all the more. He'd learned that long ago—learned to hold silent and still and numb, and let the reality of his life roll over him. What had possessed him, to think for even a moment otherwise?

It came again, the memory, stilling his chest and wrapping about reality, bending everything to its power: his Master reaching down with such empty compassion as long, cracked nails catching against Luke's cheek as he wiped the tears away. "_I am the only constant in your life, child. I am the only center, the very foundation. And I am the holder of secrets, now—I know you, as no-one else does, or ever will."_

Luke flinched, blinking quickly against the moment he'd drowned within a thousand times. He looked briefly to the sketched shouts of Bail and Breha Organa, then made himself turn away. But the regret still gnawed, as he pulled the strike-lighter he still carried from his pocket, knocked open the lid and fired it in the same familiar motion, taking it in both hands to still its tremble as he lifted the spice stick to his mouth and lit it.

The first breath didn't work; the spice was never hot enough, it needed two or three to pull the heat through… Then a rush raced through him, tightening his chest and loosening his limbs, as that familiar heavy weight came over him, dropping his shoulders and rolling his head forwards. He wondered briefly if he was doing this to console himself or to punish Solo—but it was momentary, and easily overrun by the numbing spread of the spice, which pulled such thoughts down to hazy abstraction as his heartbeat amped louder. Painfully so; he didn't like the spice, didn't like that it took the floor from under him and stole his senses, reducing him to sluggish numbness…but it didn't matter; not any more. Too loose to sit, he leaned back to rest his head on the cold, hard floor, thinking—finally—of nothing more than the play of the city's distant lights across the ceiling of the big, empty room, as he had done a thousand times before.

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to be continued…

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	27. Chapter 27

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

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The summons from Palpatine arrived late in the afternoon. Luke had woken early, head muzzy from spice—the first he'd taken in many days, driven by the runaway events of the previous night's meeting with Leia Skywalker…and by the look on Han's face after he'd pulled Luke back. The duel had already been over, Leia's brief flare of antagonism and Luke's readiness to answer it quickly burned out to be replaced by…what? Something else entirely. But Han hadn't known that when he'd finally reached them, hauling Luke away then walking out on him to go after Leia.

So now Luke sat alone, torn between his frustration that he'd taken spice at all, and the nagging conviction that to drop back to the way things were, was the only real answer.

And yet Han's words kept on ringing in his head, underlining Luke's own disappointment in himself.

"_It's amazing how quick it becomes that. How fast something that once took it all away, becomes something that just adds to your daily problems... And I know that you were just tryin' to deal with something, and maybe it worked for a while…but it doesn't any more, does it? If you ask me, that means it's time to leave it behind."_

The words leached into Luke's thoughts more and more as the morning dragged on, so that he resorted to ever more elaborate props to keep his mind busy. Gorn and Indo, both on the day shift, stayed out of his way as Luke threw himself into accessing all information from the Ubiqtorate Hub regarding the Leafar Shield X project, his library desk strewn with multiple datapads and holo-projectors, all loaded up with details of the most likely candidate to get him off of Coruscant as quickly as possible, until the action of the last few weeks had died down.

He even had a reason for picking this project—the shields on all Advanced TIE's, including his own Interceptor which had survived close proximity to the Death Star's destruction, were offshoot-technology from the Shield X system, originally designed for use with far larger ships. So it wasn't unreasonable that it would catch his interest. And the case had escalated when, after the theft of a corvette equipped with an operational Shield X system, several small Advanced starfighters which utilized Shield X technology had also been seized from the same Imperial-funded research facility. It could have been anybody, of course: a rival company, a theft to order, Black Sun even…but with the Leafar design company's links to the Maw Installation, and the information's inbound route to Coruscant through the Cron Drift—and therefore the Rebel listening post—Luke could already see the Rebellion's fingerprints all over this. Older fighters like the X-wing simply wouldn't have the power to fuel the Shield X system, but Luke didn't particularly want to start coming up against any of the rumored new A-wings utilizing it, the next time he flew against the Rebels. Any small fighter had its shields substantially bolstered by the system, and as long as it was able to supply sufficient power to them, bigger craft such as corvettes were rendered near-invulnerable.

That had to be sufficient reason to keep the design out of Rebel hands—and get Luke off of Coruscant to do so.

By lunchtime Han still hadn't shown, though security registered him as being in his quarters. Theoretically he had the evening shift tonight, but he generally turned up hours early. When he didn't, Luke quashed down the desire to go to his quarters, biting at his thumbnail as he stared at the datapads strewn across the wide library desk without seeing, torn between his body's freshly-fired desire for the next spice fix, and Han's words…and with a sudden, grave apprehension, he wondered if Solo himself was remembering those words and thinking the same thing—not of spice, but of being here at all: _"I know that it worked for a while…but it doesn't any more… If you ask me, that means it's time to leave it behind."_

_._

When Palpatine's summons arrived it was, for once, a welcome distraction.

Accessing the Ubiqtorate's hub throughout the day for Shield X data had meant that Luke had also been able to passively monitor through-going information, and though the explosive fire in the Shades last night had been logged, it was being left to local law enforcement, meaning that it was presently not considered to have the kind of suspicious circumstances that would warrant Intel's interest. Which meant that Palpatine's summons would likely be about something else.

The list, Luke reflected, was still pretty long.

Still, he ran through the details of the Shield X project in his mind as he made the long walk through the upper levels of the ziggurat and into the grand, lofty corridors of towering proportions within the Turrets, the Emperor's private reserve, hoping for the chance to gain permission to leave.

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Ninety steps. It was ninety steps to get from one side of the Waiting Hall, which preceded his Master's audience chamber, to the other. Ninety steps. He'd counted them many, many times as he'd made this same, tense walk. The immense red-marbled hall was almost without scale so great was its size, taking a minute or more to cross, though it still contrived to press in claustrophobically to Luke, making him always glance to the massive vaulted ceiling of the windowless hall, where a vast leaded glass lantern cast shuttered shadows over bare stone-dressed walls.

It had its usual scattering of power-mongers, who stared with open distaste and hidden wariness, the unremitting liver-red basalt on every surface coloring their features. Luke walked past with barely a sideways glance, though he knew most; their strengths, their weaknesses…at what point they would buckle if the right pressure was applied. It was his business to know such things, and at this level of power, they all knew that—as well as the fact that their status bought them immunity from his attention…for exactly as long as his Master needed them.

He walked on, caught up in his own mire of potential problems at the audience ahead, and the fact that his own wellbeing could just as easily be forfeit. Knowing that everyone who made this fateful walk to his Master's presence sported the same look, no matter how often they did it; an unequal mix of anxiety and resolve, the relative quantities dependent entirely upon the situation.

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The fact that the Audience Chamber was empty when he entered caused Luke's step to break just slightly—if he was to be reprimanded, it was generally alone—but he caught his pace and walked the length of the hall, chest a little tighter, to kneel before his Master. Palpatine stood facing away from Luke to one side of the deep dais, as far from the streaming light of half-darkened windows as possible, his eyes on a large holograph of the major hyperspace routes of the galaxy's turnwise arm.

He didn't prevaricate; didn't even look round. "An armada of five Star Destroyers is being assembled in orbit over the next day, in preparation for a course taking in Atrivis and the Maw Cluster, then the Sanctuary Pipeline at Sullust."

Luke nodded, feeling his tension slacken just slightly at the subject, his guilt at lying to his Master still playing on his mind. But the stop-offs indicated that this was another thing entirely. "The Second Death Star."

"Precisely. Its completion will be brought forward apace."

It was no great surprise; with the destruction of its predecessor, Luke had known that his Master's attentions would soon turn to the second Death Star. Even before the first Death Star's completion it had effectively been superseded by its successor, whose systems far outstripped it. Everything that had been learned by the first Death Star's construction had been put into practice in the second's. It occurred to Luke briefly to offer to go, in an attempt to get himself off of Coruscant—in fact he'd opened his mouth to say such, when his Master continued.

"I myself will make the journey on the _Conqueror_, going first to Atrivis, to better instill in those working upon it my expectations, and then the Maw, to personally rate and accelerate other weapons programs and completion schedules."

As he spoke, Palpatine reached into the hologram to highlight and magnify the upper part of the Rimma Trade Route near Sullust, and Luke held silent, suddenly hopeful, mentally calculating the amount of time that would be given over to the tour. It wasn't unheard of for his Master to make such journeys, he'd done so several times in the last few years of the first Death Star's completion, and only occasionally had Luke been made to attend. Weeks—it would take weeks, to make the wide arc which spanned almost half of the Empire, though his Master could conceivably make the tour in three separate stages, going first to Atrivis, then returning to Coruscant before journeying to the Maw Cluster in the Outer Rim, then a second return to Coruscant before travelling to Sullust just outside of the Mid Rim, though it made more sense to make at least two of the journeys together and—

"You will accompany the armada, travelling onboard the _Relentless_. Lord Vader will also form part of the force, onboard the _Devastator_." Highlighting Fondor, his Master continued without pause, unaware of the punch of panic that Luke suppressed at the casually-uttered command. "We will return from Sullust via the Fondor Shipyards, to view the _Executor_ prior to its completion."

Luke's lip twitched; travelling in an armada meant that it would be harder to avoid his Master on a day to day basis—or for Lord Vader to do the same—which effectively put Luke in daily contact with both of them. "I've…" He looked down, hesitating…but he had to try. "I've already committed to the ongoing Ubiqtorate investigation into the stolen corvette fitted with Shield X technology, Master, and need to—"

"Leave it for another," his Master dismissed.

"It has connections to the infiltrated Maw communications. I led that case, and so have a clearer overview of..." He stilled as Palpatine turned.

"Perhaps I did not make my requirements clear. You will travel with the armada. Whilst we are at the Maw installation, you may use any free time available to you to further the case, then make a report to be transmitted back to the Ubiqtorate for their continued investigation."

Luke took a breath to speak…but his Master's unrelenting stare stopped him, so that he let it out a silent sigh and lowered his head in capitulation, knowing that his chance was lost—if there had ever been one.

Palpatine glared for several seconds longer, then turned away, his gravelly voice level again. "You will also make out a dossier on the outward journey containing everything you know of the Jedi woman, in readiness to be handed to the agent who will pursue her."

Again Luke glanced up, seeing an opportunity. "Let me take the task. I know her, I can—"

"No. That assignment is to be given to another."

"Lord Vader won't bring her in—he won't even get close. It needs more subtlety than he's capable of."

"I agree," his Master said simply. "The assignment will go to a field agent."

Brie or Jade, then, Luke knew; his Master would send someone capable of working against a Jedi, and there were few of those. If it wasn't himself or Vader, then it would have to be Shira Brie or Mara Jade, his Hand agents in the field. For a second, Luke realized that he was calculating this fact with an intent to pass it on…then quashed the thought. He had no way now, in any case; he'd made that decision final when he'd destroyed the comlink last night.

Aware that the Emperor was still looking closely at him, Luke straightened, trying to summon some sense of openness while hiding so much. He took the one thing he knew was unshakeable—his loyalty to his Master—and he brought that to the fore, gaining enough strength from it to look his Master in the eye.

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Palpatine watched the boy's nerves flicker briefly; sensed some deeper qualm quiver momentarily before it was quashed with decisive certainty, as Antilles met his stare without blinking. He knew, of course, that something was wrong—had sensed the ripples that had played uneasily across Antilles' thoughts for weeks now—but given the discontent in his own Household, that was to be expected. Viscount Indo's escalating attempts to have Solo removed, were evidence of that.

At least the boy had finally put to rest the matter of Vader's spy in his camp. It had taken longer than Palpatine had expected, but from all accounts, it had been decisive in the end…despite Solo's intervention, it seemed. And that, particularly, was a favorable sign. It would do the boy good to learn how to distance himself from all of those around him with equal effectiveness—save his Master. And if he didn't…well then, Palpatine intended for this trip to be cathartic for the boy in more ways than one.

Still…he narrowed his eyes. "The pilot in your staff…"

The boy was instantly on the defensive, though he answered his Master's prompt without hesitation. "Solo."

Palpatine nodded as he turned casually back to the starcharts. "Bring him."

"…Why?"

It was a careful question rather than an actual challenge from the boy, but even that was intolerable, so Palpatine turned, letting his irritation imbue his sense unchecked…and Antilles glanced down, dropping his head a little lower in his unease—as well he might. Palpatine held silent as he glared for long seconds, watching the shadow of a frown cross the boy's tense face…

He was becoming more like his father as he grew to adulthood, harboring guarded thoughts, hiding tiny corners of private knowledge and holding them like gems. Such a desire for autonomy was to be expected to some degree, of course, but though his loyalty remained unreserved, these half-formed doubts had spotted the purity of his deference, leaving Palpatine to wonder, of late. Yet along with this had come a burgeoning connection with the Force; the final realization of all the potential that Palpatine had seen in a seven-year-old child…and as ever, the boy's undiminished allegiance ensured that this new wellspring of power was available to Palpatine without hesitation or misgivings. So if the two facets of development came hand in hand, then so be it. As with his father—as with countless others—it didn't matter what the boy felt. It mattered only that he obeyed.

Still, the knowledge of those hoarded fragments gnawed at Palpatine because despite the boy's devotion, they revealed a certain amount of self-determination, albeit crushed down and muted, and that was a far less desirable thing than a few petty little secrets.

Perhaps he needed some encouragement, to find his direction again. "Stand up."

Antilles stood, though he didn't meet his Master's eye. Palpatine stepped down from his dais, feeling a smile of satisfaction play on his lips when the boy tensed as he closed. He halted just a half step away, but said nothing for a moment; let his presence intimidate…then he reached out to gently lift the boy's head, crooked finger to his chin.

"These…friendships…" He said the word as if it were distasteful. Put into it every nuance of the debilitating hindrance that he wished the boy to understand they were. "They are always a disappointment, in the end. They always burn. No one will ever come close to the power of this bond between you and I. All others…they are petty and selfish and narrow, and if you leave yourself open to them, they will peck and they will dig and they will drive you to distraction."

Antilles glanced to the side with troubled eyes, and Palpatine knew that he'd touched a nerve; that this may well be the moment to push. He shook his head slowly, persuasively, indulgent now. "Such forged and fleeting friendships that others offer are always deceitful and insincere. They are always self-serving and hypocritical. If you let them, they will always take from you—and take, and take. They will always judge, and they will always demand….and when you can give no more, they will fade away to look for easier prey. Is that how you want to define your life—by clinging to feeble and fictitious props, offered by those who know that you are already more than they will ever be?"

"No, Master." It was barely more than a murmur.

"You could be so much, child…yet you hold yourself back. Knowingly. Worse, you let lesser beings do it for you, in tying you to their own inferior standards and ambitions. You _know_ all this, and yet you allow it to continue…and for what? To undergo the humiliation of abandonment, one more time?"

When he remained silent ,Palpatine moved to rest his hand gently against the boy's cheek in a forged gesture of affection—and in that second was suddenly intensely aware of his own decrepitude; of the dry and cracked whorls worn into the pale, sunken skin of his hands at every joint. Of the youth and vitality that the boy embodied; the one thing which no amount of power could buy—though he had greater plans and preparations in place, even for this. Still, a flush of envy filled him with the driving desire to close his fingers to talons and drive curved and cracked nails through that soft flesh…

The boy glanced up, his uncertainty visible in fine lines about his eyes…and Palpatine smiled graciously; guilefully. Because what he could not himself reclaim, he could hold in another. So there was joy, even here, in the knowledge that he could subjugate; could ravage and erode with dark clarity and absolute delight.

The thought twitched his lips from a sneer to a smile, as he put such false candour into his voice; such caring consideration. The boy should know this all too well, of course…but denied companionship with any other, he had always been so painfully desperate for any connection to the man who had raised him. Palpatine smiled wider, appreciative of his own artifice as he spun his persuasions.

"What did I say to you, the very night that I showed you just what a weakness such things are? What devastating, unnecessary flaws. I told you on their deaths that you need never feel like this again. I told you then that I was the only constant in your life. I was the center, the very foundation. The only keeper of secrets. I have never once judged you, though I know more than any other ever will. I alone know the truth—and I have always kept it safe." The boy glanced down as a flare of guilt lit his sense, unchecked, but Palpatine only smiled beatifically. "I have never asked anything of you, save that which I know will make you stronger. I told you that it was not the Sith way to harbor any other connection than that between Master and apprentice. That you should deny and eradicate them by strength of will, or you would always be this vulnerable. You did not listen…and so I look now at one brought low by this pathetic and demeaning state." His lip curled in open distaste. "If you could only see yourself through my eyes, child…see how pitiful you are, in this. I had such plans for you…such hopes. Will you see them all fade and wither?"

"No, Master."

"Must I drag you every step of the way…or do you have within you the strength to walk alone?"

The boy remained still, head lowering by degrees as he scowled at the floor. But he listened; he always did.

"Luke," Palpatine pressed lightly at the boy's jaw to lift it again, aware of the power that simply speaking his name held, so little did he deign to use it. "We are different, our kind. We do not need others as they need us. We cannot and should not be bound by their petty rules or endless, insignificant demands. Every time you allow such a thing—every time you even consider it—you limit yourself. You humiliate yourself. They are below you, child. Pay homage to your own kind—to your own Master. It's here that dignity and solace lies. Duty will gain you contentment. Reverence will gain you honor. "

He released the boy, maintaining a subtle spear of disappointment in his voice. "Stand up straight. Remember who you are; what you are. I _gave_ you that purpose, that identity. I granted you life itself, because I saw within you the potential for true loyalty. Do you feel nothing—no desire to uphold my faith in you? Because of me, you stand here today stronger than you could ever have been alone. I have given you everything—everything that you are and everything that you will ever be…I ask only for the same, in return."

Antilles let his gaze drop in quiet compliance as Palpatine shook his head in rueful reproach. "You must place your faith here, child, and here alone. Place your life itself."

The boy's eyes skipped to his Master's, already anticipating the reply that was expected—but Palpatine shook his head before the words were spoken, though they remained a gratifying truth. "I know that you would die for me…but that is no longer enough. You must live your life for me, too; for my command. Devote it to me alone...there can be nothing else. I ask so little in the greater scheme of things; the devotion of a single, lost child." His voice dropped lower, forcing Antilles to strain, to concentrate simply to hear, so that his next words, spoken with absolute surety, would remain in the boy's thoughts for a long while to come. "Don't you see, child? I ask this not _of_ you, but _for_ you, because without me you are nothing…absolutely nothing."

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Stood alone in the looming grandeur of his Audience Chamber when the boy had been dismissed, Palpatine steepled his fingers to rest them on his lips in thought as he glanced up at the domed and lanterned ceiling, dressed in agate-marbled stone. His thoughts were taken momentarily by the somber magnificence of the echoing space; it dwarfed so many, he knew. To him, it was merely a token of the scale of his achievements.

He looked to the doors through which Antilles had exited moments before, thoughts a conflicted tangle of his Master's words and private, always deep-seated inhibitions. He had held the boy so long, and controlled him completely in so much, and yet…he still wondered whether to have gained him younger still, would have been beneficial. Then again, the methods which had gained him the boy—the decisive removal of his guardians, and Antilles' carefully-plotted involvement in it—had also impacted greatly on Palpatine's ability to manipulate the growing boy.

Perhaps not surprisingly then, fear of abandonment had long been one of Antilles' greatest weaknesses, and so was always a useful tool to underline the capricious fickleness of others as opposed to his Master's constant presence—in fact, Palpatine had worked towards this by inserting a string of individuals into the boy's life over the years with the express intention of removing them, of which the Corellian, Solo, was simply the latest. Such ongoing actions had made Antilles so very easy to predict and to influence. To draw away from any other and back to Palpatine himself, with claims that he alone was the only constant in the boy's life. It was, after all, true; Palpatine had seen to that.

But his words tonight had not been simply another underlining for Antilles of the drawbacks of placing his faith anywhere but with his Master. Not simply another demand for loyalty. Because of late, as the boy's powers had clarified and begun to reach their full potential, Palpatine had become more aware of just how much he needed to ensure that he had Antilles' total attention. The obvious way to do that—the easy path—would be to underline the boy's isolation one more time by removing the Corellian, as he'd promised Viscount Indo was his intention. But no...he smiled appreciatively into the night, aware that the game had become so much wider…and yet so much more specific, as the stakes had increased. Because what had been intended as a test of detachment had taken on new meaning in the past weeks, as Antilles' Force abilities had finally stabilized.

Indo had been so reliable for so long, but Palpatine hadn't missed the signs; the boy's abilities were ringing truer every day, and the question playing through Palpatine's thoughts now, was whether that because of the Corellian's involvement. And if that were so, then the next obvious question had to be…if Palpatine removed Indo rather than the Corellian, would the boy's abilities increase faster? What to do…how to choose.

Palpatine frowned, staring into the depths of the massive hologram which rotated before him, a complex cartography of the galaxy itself, laid out before its rightful master. Yes, the boy's powers had clarified and stabilized...more, even, than Palpatine had anticipated. Perhaps Luke Antilles' role as another Hand should be modified, to take that into account. He had no wish to rid himself of the boy, confident of his control, and one should always be willing to amend one's plans, in the face of unexpected change. To send Antilles away in less than a year now seemed unnecessarily wasteful. As to Solo—and Indo…they too should not be wasted.

He tilted his head as a thought occurred—one that dealt with several problems at once: the boy, his mentors…his future, given recent events—

And nodded, allowing a slow smile to snake across his lips. Yes…yes, _there_ was the answer.

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Thoughts intent on the virtual screen before him—on the daily work of ensuring the smooth running of Luke Antilles' household—Indo slowed to glance about him: the burred ebony panels polished to a mirror finish in his stately office, the dark and dignified ascetics of the elegant corridor leading to the empty apartment beyond… It had been his vocation for so long now, to maintain everything in its proper place with fastidious precision. He simply couldn't imagine any part of that changing. Yet he feared very much that it was doing so, because of Solo's involvement...

And Solo, in his arrogance, thought that this could only be a good thing. Knowing nothing of the greater landscape here, political or private, nothing of the persona's or the powers involved, he simply steamed on ahead to...Indo would have liked to have said to his own personal agenda, but he doubted that the man worked even that identifiably—if he did, he could have at least been either intimidated or bribed. But no, he simply reacted, and in doing so threw everything in the air with scant and reckless disregard of the greater picture—both Indo's long-standing intentions and Luke's ongoing stability.

Luke had, it seemed, avoided Indo since Solo's accusing outburst two days earlier, and Indo had chosen not to push the matter or broach it with Luke yet, preferring to let the matter settle for a while. He didn't particularly feel slighted by Luke's actions; the Corellian seemed to have made it his mission to worm his way into Luke's life, and part of that would naturally be to remove all existing associations. In a similar situation Indo would have done the same, though a good deal more subtly.

He had, for instance, already been to the Emperor to voice his concern at the disruptions that Solo was causing almost constantly now, which he hoped would pre-empt any accusations that Solo may eventually take to the Emperor. Though in truth, he doubted that Solo would do that; he'd acknowledged himself that to do so would inevitably involve Luke, and therefore cause as much damage to his own reputation with the boy as it did to Indo's with the Emperor. And Solo surely realized that Indo had dangerous information on him, too; about the Rebel woman on Toprawa. That alone would be equally as damaging to Solo's already-shaky reputation here, as any accusation he tried to level at Indo. He had to know that.

And then there was Luke himself; all of this disruption and disorder served only to undermine the wellbeing of the one person whom Solo claimed he was trying to protect. Indo had spent so long establishing calm and order here, habit and convention. Yes, his methods were unorthodox…but in case Solo hadn't noticed, they had worked. And what hadn't…was manageable.

Indo straightened, eyes losing focus as he saw again the slight and stifled boy who had been placed in his care that night. Remembered the pity he'd felt, on seeing the child. The guilt at having looked away for so long, the compromises he'd made in the years since… And quite suddenly and unsettlingly, he wondered…had they been too many?

Movement at the edge of his vision caught Indo's eye, and he turned, to see Luke leaning against the frame of his open office door in silence, still in his Ubiqtorate uniform, the high collar buttoned. He hadn't heard the footsteps which would have announced the boy's return, but then he seldom did.

"Do you need something, Luke?" He kept his voice measured. That Luke was here at all was…Indo hesitated, wondering; _That he was here at all_… here, and not with Solo. The man whom Indo generally couldn't get rid of at any time of day, let alone altogether, was suddenly conspicuous in his absence, it occurred to Indo.

He remained still, quietly hopeful for a return to past grace. There was no resentment in his manner for all that had happened—both he and the boy were long past that, on so many counts. It was Solo who was at fault, for wheedling the information from Luke in the first place. It had to be; in all their years, Luke had never told anyone else. No, Solo was the dangerous one—first for what he now knew and just as importantly, for the fact that he'd been able to gain Luke's trust sufficiently to find out. One more reason why he should be removed.

Luke remained still and silent, arms wrapped about himself, and Indo brought his own thoughts into cooler alignment, lest the boy should choose to look. But he seemed preoccupied, voice despondent.

"I spoke to the Emperor…an armada of five Star Destroyers will have gathered in orbit around Coruscant by tomorrow morning. We're travelling with Palpatine in the armada, to the Greater Plooroid Sector, then the Maw, and Sullust. I was…" Luke glanced down in avoidance, so that his eventual words were a barely heard murmur. "I thought I would need to…to go out tonight…"

And there it was; Indo understood immediately, in a rush of relief. Normality was reasserting itself, as he'd had faith that it would. In fact, he'd already prepared—as ever. "I see. It seems that I have a great deal to organize." He glanced, for just a moment, to the drawer beneath the polished hardwood of his wide, orderly desk, then rose to leave, such practices long-since embedded into their private vocabulary. "I would, however, prefer that you remained here."

Luke didn't reply; didn't look up to meet Indo's eyes, though he waited for a long time. Eventually, Indo walked silently past the boy and out of the apartment, knowing that Luke would already have opened the drawer beneath his desk to retrieve the small, copper-spun box which had waited within, carefully filled with Ruby spice.

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Even as Luke walked to his rooms, the box in his hand, some small voice at the back of his mind told him not to; cried out in frustration that he was about to drop back into familiar habits with such calm resignation.

Because this wasn't the momentary lapse that last night had been, and he knew it. This was a return to his old life, to the way things had always been—knowingly. It had to be, because if he didn't, then he wouldn't survive. Wouldn't survive Han's walking out on him, knowing that it would be a slow slide back down into numb, lonely capitulation. Even now it settled like a weight within him as he searched for some kind of reaction, some kind of emotion…but already they were starting to depress down into homogenous stillness again.

He knew, of course, that Han would return to the palace—that he'd walk back in here either at this shift change or the next, as if nothing had happened. But he also knew that everything would have shifted. Because for Han, whether he realized it or not, it already had.

Luke hadn't understood, at first—couldn't fathom why, when he'd done far worse, Han hadn't judged. It had taken a while to comprehend that it wasn't _what_ Luke had done, it was _to whom. _Then it had all become clear. Not just Han's reaction last night, but his whole mindset, then, now...and in the future.

Perhaps it would be better this way. He had, briefly, allowed himself to _feel_ something. Had learned to appreciate that strange and alien warmth that emanated from others. Had laughed again. But the price of those brief highs had been devastating lows, and he couldn't survive those without someone here to buffer him, he knew that—couldn't survive this life or face his Master with such a crippling vulnerability. He knew from long experience that it was simply too hard, alone. Indo did what he could, in his own way, but his solutions...they were of a different kind. Better to close down once more; to fall back into the insular safety of stillness, and numb what little was left with spice.

The hint of a dry smile twitched his lips, because he'd thought again of Solo's words: _"It worked for a while…but it doesn't any more, does it? If you ask me, that means it's time to leave it behind."_

It was true; time to leave it behind, this momentary flare of ridiculous, wild hope. Time to leave it all behind—and he knew exactly how to do that.

Walking through the echoing silence of his empty rooms, he dropped cross-legged to the floor, and opened the box…

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…It was a vague attenuation; a swirl of moving shadows at the edges of Luke's frayed awareness, which dragged him back to the moment. He blinked rapidly, feeling some distant sense of surprise that even this had coalesced, in his present state. Lying on the floor in his room and staring at the ceiling through a haze of scarlet smoke, he wanted nothing more than to remain where he was, his limbs heavy beyond tiredness, the overwhelming desire to sleep pulling at every fiber of his body. But again, he sensed the shadows crawl about him, and knew that Vader was close…close enough to be inside his apartment, and coming closer by the moment...and he was angry. But then Vader was always fuming about something. Luke smiled, amused at that, as he rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright with over-loose limbs. Licking his lips, he could still taste the rough acidic tang of the spice stick which had burned to nothing in his hand, its ash falling close to the spent stubs of others…which made him smile again—he wasn't sure why.

He walked through his private rooms with a slow, uneven gait, eyes on the double-doors which opened onto the Red Room beyond; he needed to be out there. He didn't want Vader to come any further, and from the roiling antagonism which whirled within the furls of the dark cloak he wore, Luke doubted that Vader would be stopped by locked doors. For an instant Vader's thoughts cut into Luke's own, so that he saw a brief, confusing image; the reflection of a raven figure in the mirrored wall of the Red Room, fragmented and distorted by its warped mercury-glass panes. His head swum and he reached out his hand to steady himself, but there was nothing for support in the bare room, so that he staggered clumsily forward and to one side until the heel of his outstretched hand hit against one of the canvases on the wall. Blinking rapidly, he called what he could of the Force to him, fighting to clear the effects of too much spice as the doors before him snicked their release and opened.

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Staring at his own reflection in the mirrored wall as he stalked towards it, Vader had a brief, indistinct image from the boy's point of view as he walked towards the other side of the mirrored doors, the vision hazy and unclear despite their now-close proximity, the connection unguarded but somehow tainted. For a second he felt reality tilt to one side so that he staggered a step, disoriented…then the moment lost cohesion altogether and wisped to nothing, as the mirrored door slid aside.

The boy stood there, one hand to the door's frame, his shoulders hunched almost vulnerably. It didn't slow Vader.

"Where is this from?" He strode on without preamble, stopping only to throw the half-empty blood vial at Antilles. It froze mid-air before the boy, but then dropped slightly as he straightened to take it, forcing him to almost grab for it as it fell. Still, a hundred shields raised into place with practiced ease as he smiled, unmoved before the open threat in Vader's bass, growling voice.

"I believe congratulations are in order, Lord Vader."

The dry amusement in Antilles' tone bit like never before, and Vader couldn't help but react, stepping quickly forward to grab for him, which forced the boy to sidestep in an effort to slip from Vader's grip, somehow one step free and into the room before Vader had corrected, Antilles' hand up in warning, though he didn't seem truly threatened.

"I don't believe that it is real," Vader countered, voice and sense barely controlled.

Antilles shrugged, loose-limbed, blinking too rapidly as he did so. Stepping back, he leaned heavily on the edge of an inlaid table, his tone mocking, though his words were almost slurred. "Then don't. Turn around and walk out of here, and forget all about it."

Vader remained, aware that the youth held all the cards. "It's a manufactured sample."

"I'm sure you've had every possible check run on it. You know it's genuine." Antilles wrapped his arms about himself, seeming briefly, intensely uncertain—then grinned. "Perhaps you just need a little time to adjust. I know I did—shocked can't begin to describe my…"

"Where is he?" It was a struggle for Vader to keep his voice level—to resist the urge to wipe that mocking smirk from the boy's face.

Antilles paused, uncertain. "…Where?"

Vader stared, thoughts still rushing as to how this had happened—how Padmé had hidden the boy. Surely she had died too early to protect him at all. But if it had been within her power, then she certainly would have made sure that her son's future was safe. Where had he been, that Vader hadn't found him for so long? And how galling that Kenobi's son had been the one to do so… That brought another thought to the surface, as Vader took a half-step forward. "If you have injured him…"

"Injured?" The boy virtually laughed the word as he looked away. "No, Lord Vader, I'll leave that to you—you make such an art of it."

Vader scowled, furious and helpless in the same instant. What was that supposed to mean? "Until I see him, I don't believe it's true."

Antilles stared into Vader's fury for long seconds, and all that he could do was grit his teeth and take it, knowing that the boy would grasp every opportunity to taunt, long familiarity gifting him the knowledge, and the automatic desire, to twist that knife.

"Ah," Antilles almost nodded; almost smiled, as if in comprehension of some private joke. "And what would prove his existence to you? How about a pint of that precious blood?"

Vader took another half-step forward and froze, forcing himself still as the boy's cool eyes filled with amused scorn.

"No? I bet you'd take a pint of my blood right now, though?"

"At the very least," Vader growled.

Antilles let loose a dry grin. "Be careful what you wish for, Lord Vader."

"Wishes are for children," Vader ground. "I am talking of intent."

"Look at you." Antilles loosed a brief, bitter laugh as he spoke, looking Vader up and down through bloodshot eyes. "I'm betting you'd jump through hoops to see the son you didn't even know existed, wouldn't you? If I were you, I'd be looking to smooth the waters; make a deal. But you just can't bring yourself to do it even for this, can you—not with me."

Every muscle tense, Vader fought to rein in his temper, aware that now was not the time. When he had his son, then he would deal with this—with Kenobi's bastard progeny—once and for all. This really was the final game the boy would play. The temptation to rip him to pieces where he stood was almost overwhelming…

The boy set his head to one side, tone mocking. "Contemplating fatherhood? I'm sure it's quite a shock; it certainly was to your son."

Realization hit Vader, unnerving in its implications: "Then he knows who he is?"

"Oh yes, he knows," Antilles allowed, no trace of a taunt in his voice as it dropped to introspection. "He knows exactly what he is."

"I want to see him," Vader repeated, the demand undisguised.

"Perhaps he doesn't want to speak to you."

The words stopped Vader cold. Why would he not want to? How could he feel anything other than what Vader felt right now? Of course he wanted to speak to his own father, this was just Antilles playing his petty power games. "Because of course, he would tell you that."

"Oh, he tells me everything," Antilles stated. "We're very close."

The leather of Vader's gloves creaked ominously as he closed powerful hands into fists, though the boy was not in the least fazed as Vader growled in reply, "He would not trust you."

Again that knowing smile. "Ah, but he knows I'm the only one he _can_ trust."

What lies had Antilles been filling his son's head with? _Think,_ Vader commanded himself; get some information—anything. Somewhere to start looking. "Have you spoken to him—does he know that I am aware, now?"

"As a matter of fact he does, yes. And he was, I can tell you, pretty ambivalent about the fact."

"Will you tell him of this meeting?"

"Let's just cut through the games and say I have access to him," the boy stated, clearly aware of Vader's intention. "I've yet to decide whether you deserve the same."

He fixed Vader with a strange look as he murmured the last, and a moment of calculating silence held between them, as if he were truly considering. Then he straightened again, pulling himself back to the moment. "Oh, and if you're thinking of taking this to Palpatine I would advise you against it very strongly. For a start, he already knows."

The twist of raw anxiety that Vader was unable to disguise seemed only to goad the boy on. "In fact, it turns out that he's invested a great deal of time and effort in making sure you didn't know for a very long time now. Believe me when I tell you that if he thought for one second you had even an inkling of your son's existence…" Antilles let his words trail off, his empty smile doing likewise as his voice took a serious edge. "Together you become a threat, you see; father and son. Too much of a connection for our Master to tolerate, I presume. Think of my…concealing him as a favor. You don't wish to see him hurt—and contrary to your belief, neither do I. And trust me when I say that Palpatine would be livid if this got out."

It was true, of course; his son was in mortal danger even if Vader managed to pry him from Antilles' hold. His heartrate lifted another notch in realization of that. "Where is he! Let him go."

The youth narrowed his eyes as his chin lifted a fraction. "Why? What do you want with him?"

It was a surprising question in that it was just that—a question. No mockery, no aside, no games. The openness of it reverberated through the Force with unsettling clarity. "He needs protection."

"Perhaps he can take care of himself," the youth said, unmoved.

As if he could—against Antilles; against Palpatine.

"He's in danger. You said so yourself."

"Which is why he'll remain hidden, for now," Antilles countered. "I'll be the one to take care of him."

"You," Vader blurted, seeing red. "You'd just as likely turn him over to the Emperor as to me—then beg your Master for permission to cut his throat yourself out of some sense of misguided revenge."

"Revenge…" the youth repeated, not in the least offended by the charge Vader had hurled at him. "An interesting notion… Why would I need revenge on you, do you think? Perhaps for all those years of malicious abuse that you rained down on a child who was alone and isolated here, because all you could see was a threat. Or perhaps you're remembering that you killed Kenobi just days ago, then brought back his lightsaber for the sole purpose of enjoying the look on my face when you threw it at my feet."

The accusations were issued with the cool, distant calm of one who had lived too long beneath such callous treatment to be effected by such acts. Perhaps his years here truly had caused so much damage that any greater feeling was forever lost to the boy—though he'd long since learned the concept of leverage. "I wonder…do you regret that now?" The words, no more than a murmur, were as close to a threat as the boy had come in this strange conversation, and the implication left Vader cold.

"I regret not killing you nine years ago," he growled with absolute, cold candor.

The intense study in Antilles' eyes leached away, leaving a moment's inexplicable disillusionment before it fell to that familiar insular amusement, though the boy didn't flinch. It was nothing that Vader hadn't said many times before with equal sincerity.

"And lose this opportunity to know your son? I'm sure you can't possibly mean that, Lord Vader."

"What opportunity?" Vader countered.

Antilles paused, seeming to consider for long seconds… "Give me a message—I'll take it to him."

Vader let loose a rasping laugh; as if he'd give the manipulative little Sith that kind of control. Then a second thought occurred; he should do it—if he gave a message, Antilles would have to contact his son in order to pass it on…and that might provide an opportunity to find out where he was confined. He hesitated, then offered, "Tell him…tell him that I know of him, now."

The youth tilted his head, voice dry. "Be careful, Lord Vader—you wouldn't want to get too emotional."

Vader narrowed his eyes as he ground out a threat aimed more towards the cur that stood before him now than his stolen son. "Tell him that I will come for him—that I will break and shatter anything that stands in my way. That I will rip it to shreds and hurl it aside. That nothing will escape my wrath and no one will be beyond my vengeance, and I will spend every minute of every day from now until I have my son beside me, in contemplation of the horrific, agonizing deaths that will be exacted on those who thought to cross me in this."

Antilles only smiled before that heartfelt tirade, completely unintimidated, though he would know very well that Vader meant every word of it. Would his own son be as strong as Kenobi's bastard, Vader wondered? Of course—of course he would. He raised his chin at that, the first inkling of pride for the son he didn't yet know beginning to color his thoughts.

"Well," Antilles stated evenly, "I was thinking of something more along the lines of 'Hello,' but it's your choice, I suppose."

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Watching Vader flounder in helpless silence, Luke hesitated a second then turned away, having nothing more to say. The absurdity of the whole conversation lent it a surreal air easily equal to the spice which ran in his veins. Still, the undisguised hatred that rolled in waves from his own father made what had originally been nothing more than a bizarre, spice-fed game all too familiar. He was unsure how it had come to this anyway; he hadn't intended to mislead Vader, or to provoke or torment him like this, it had just…happened, as it always did with Vader, the conventions already deep-seated.

And now he had no idea how to backstep, even if he'd wanted to. He turned away and walked quickly to the mirrored wall behind him, wishing to end this.

As the doors slid open Vader's bass voice rumbled out again, the barest hint of hidden need audible, and even that making it all but unrecognizable to Luke.

"Tell him…tell him I am glad."

Luke's step faltered, heart and chest freezing momentarily at the unexpected sincerity, no idea of how to react to such a thing from the man who had been his avowed enemy for so long. But then it wasn't meant for Luke—not really. It was meant for some imaginary, perfect son that Luke could never even hope to measure up to. When he found out the awful truth, Vader's words would change quickly enough.

Shaken more by that momentary chink of compassion than he could ever have been by a thousand threats, Luke nodded just once without turning then walked quickly from the room, deeply disquieted.

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To be continued…..

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	28. Chapter 28

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**CHAPTER 28**

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Standing on the Command Bridge of the Emperor's Star Destroyer, _Conqueror_, Vader glanced briefly to the Corellian pilot Solo, who stood off to one side with Antilles, curious again as to why the Emperor allowed his continued presence. Aside from some vague attachment to Antilles' household, he had no function here that Vader could see, and Palpatine wasn't in the habit of indulging the boy. Though if that was the sole reason, then Solo's star may well be waning; he and Antilles stood several steps apart, and had not once spoken since entering.

Still, Solo watched Vader warily, eyes narrowed to slits, the protective flare he had for Kenobi's son still firing. Why, Vader didn't know; the boy was perfectly able to take care of himself, by any means.

Vader's gaze turned to Antilles just steps away, staring out of the wide viewscreen and across the void to the _Relentless_, which flew in close formation starboard of the _Conqueror_. They were barely a day into a sixteen-day tour of duty, and withall the Destroyers holding sublight speed for this meeting to take place, the four Destroyers responsible for the Emperor's protection were flying with pinpoint precision about the _Conqueror_. Despite his legendary confidence the Emperor was notoriously vigilant, never travelling in less than a large convoy—which had dragged both Vader and Antilles into service at close quarters, something that they normally avoided…and which the Emperor seemed to take great delight in orchestrating.

Antilles' sense was so tightly wrapped as to be near-impenetrable even at this distance…but as ever, there were tiny slivers there to be read, if one looked carefully; something Vader knew that he could do closer even than Palpatine. And right now, the boy was uneasy—doubly so, first because he hadn't expected Vader to be here, waiting to attend the same meeting as himself, and secondly because…what? Some deeper uncertainty fired within him, something hidden and raw.

He would have liked to think that it was nerves fired by the boy's close proximity to himself, when Antilles had admitted that he held Vader's son captive. But Antilles had always been stubbornly unafraid of him. Palpatine had worked hard to imbue in the growing boy a total lack of fear for any outward threat, by the simple method of making himself the most terrifying thing in the boy's life.

Palpatine…Vader stilled, thoughts going to their Master now…because if the blood sample that Antilles had provided was real—and the boy's call on that had been correct; Vader had ordered every possible test to be done, to ensure that it wasn't a well-constructed simulation—then that meant that Palpatine had lied to Vader. Knowingly. It had been Palpatine himself who had told Vader of Padmé's death, always alleging that her unborn child had died with her. How many times had Vader made himself watch images from the torchlit procession on Naboo, knotted up by a dark and seething fury at the bitter unfairness of the Fates, to have left him alive when she was lost by his own hand—his own hand!

Yet if Antilles was to be believed, then Palpatine _knew_ that Vader's son had survived. And aware of all that Vader felt—that he had lived for Padmé, that he would have died for her without a moment's hesitation—Palpatine had still made claims which had burned scars deeper than Mustafar's searing lava, and had turned all of his grief and his fury inwards, to eat at his own core until nothing remained.

Had done it knowingly.

For a brief moment, it occurred to Vader that Antilles may have access to Vader's son because Palpatine himself kept the boy imprisoned somewhere—and he stilled, muscles locking in a flare of panic. Was that how Antilles knew—through Palpatine? His eyes went again to the youth, dread making his heart pound; if Palpatine had the boy concealed in some distant keep, if he had total control over the boy's life…

Or was it Kenobi, who had told Antilles the truth? Given his own bastard son the means to strike at Vader with a terrible power? Vader glanced out into the darkness of space, feeling his chest ease and his breathing loosen—because if that were the truth, then his son would have been concealed by Kenobi and… he frowned, intensely aware in that moment of the cooling relief that had cloaked him, at the thought that it may have been his enemy, and not his own Master—the man to whom Vader had sworn his allegiance, whom he had helped place, and now kept in power—who had reared Vader's unknown son from infancy to adolescence.

What had become of all of Vader's high ideals, that this was their sum? That the most terrifying thing imaginable was that Palpatine might hold the same control over his own son, as he now held over Kenobi's—and by the same methods.

He moved his head just slightly to glance to the boy whom Palpatine had raised, seeing him afresh. A scarred and subjugated little creature, slight and gaunt from years of neglect in his youth, yet he still walked to his Maser's heel with blind loyalty…or did he?

Antilles had claimed that Palpatine knew of Vader's child…but had not actually claimed that he'd come to know the facts _through_ his Master. Had, in fact, gone to pains to clarify that Vader's taking Antilles' admission to Palpatine would be a dangerous thing.

Had Palpatine told Antilles anything at all of Vader's child…or was the boy finally gaining a will of his own, as he grew into a man?

An interesting thought…because if it were true, then what did Antilles intend to do? Why tell Vader that his son was alive? What did the boy who had grown up learning his Master's intricate games, gain from this?

Vader stilled, tilting his head further to secretly watch the boy as he stared longingly at his own Destroyer, clearly wishing he were there, his shoulders taut, eyes locked. Blue eyes… Vader studied them now, as he had a thousand times. Blue-eyed boy—that was what Palpatine called him, curse and derision, both. And yet…the boy didn't know how, in his darkest moments, Vader coveted those pale blue eyes, long-lost in his own reflection. To him they were the color of innocence, of the wide-open skies of Tatooine; of salvation. The boy didn't see it that way, of course. To him they were a blight; damnation, that they hadn't scorched sulphur yellow or burned blood-red.

Blue…it meant something more to the boy, as it meant something to Vader, he knew; could sense it like a shadow over clear desert skies. Every time that the boy saw his reflection—saw again the color of his eyes, he remembered…something. Something hidden and painful, which tore at him deep within…

Antilles turned to look directly at him, and Vader knew that he had pushed a fraction too far and the boy was aware that he was being studied on the deepest level. Sky blue eyes turned cold as ice, everything locked down beneath their frozen stare, and Vader turned to look slowly away. But that moment remained; that half-sensed, opaline-tinted memory of something deeper, something profound. Innocence lost.

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The door to the conference room to one side of the wide bridge slid open, and Saté Pestage walked out, pausing to bow slightly in invitation as the door remained open. Vader strode forward, Antilles four steps ahead of him—

The boy paused, turning to Solo…they had brief, tense words as the Corellian whispered through locked jaw and Antilles shook his head, obviously telling him to remain outside. Their whispered argument raised…until Vader neared, at which point both fell to instant silence.

Turning, Antilles walked quickly on, leaving the Corellian stranded with a fierce frustration. Barely one step ahead of him now, Antilles entered an audience with the Emperor without visible qualms—though that same unease remained, diffuse and oblique.

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They stopped before the wide sweep of a pristinely polished desk behind which the Emperor stood with his back to them, richly embroidered robes the same velvet hue as the inky black of deep space beyond, as he gazed on the convoy of Star Destroyers about him.

"It is time to move plans forward, in the wake of the Death Star's destruction," he said at last, without turning. "I have allowed these petty criminals to act against me under revolutionary claims because it has served my intentions in the past, enabled me to instigate martial laws in reaction to their attacks…but no more. They have the impudence, the audacity to believe they can act against me without reprisals..."

He turned to bring one pale hand to the dark desk, curled to a fist. "It is time to deal with this insolent little Rebellion, lest others begin to believe that the blind good fortune that enabled them to destroy my battle station is some kind of divine turning point. There is nothing stirs the masses like the unlikely victory of an underdog. They believe it providence; the start of something greater. We will disabuse them of that assumption swiftly and completely. We will strike them down with every power at our disposal."

Ochre eyes flicked to Vader as he continued. "You are to be given control of this commission, Lord Vader. It will be the first task of the _Executor_ upon its launch, to head up a new unit—the Death Squadron—with a mission of rooting out and destroying this fledgling Rebellion."

Beside him, Vader was peripherally aware of Antilles turning his head just slightly, his brief flare of frustration that he was clearly to be left behind once again quickly quashed.

Vader's thoughts remained on the task. "They are scattered far and wide, to hinder the search."

"Ten Star Destroyers, twenty frigates and an interdictor will be placed at your disposal as an initial force in advance of any action. Whatever ships and ordnance you require when you move from tracking down to engaging them, you have my approval to requisition. Your brief is to…center this Rebellion's attention, shall we say. To apply pressure in any and every way possible. When the time comes—when the second Death Star is at a specific phase in its construction—I will draw them out of hiding for you, my friend, using it as bait. In the meantime, all that their victory has done is brought them to my attention. I rely on you as ever, Lord Vader, to clarify to them and all beings, what a terrible and dangerous thing that truly is."

"The second Death Star is three years from completion," Vader reminded.

"Hence my decision to visit its construction site, now. I will re-prioritize its completion and determine exactly the order of its construction, to keep events moving forward to the pace that I dictate."

He paused, knowing that his next words would cause affront but not caring, the pause simply to make Vader aware of that fact. "To this end, we will make an unscheduled stop at Drydock IV, near Corsin, in two days' time. It is practically en-route to the Death Star's Atrivis construction site, and I have made arrangements to speak with Moff Jerjerrod there. I will grant him formal control of the Death Star's construction, certainly until it is moved to the Sanctuary Pipeline, and possibly beyond."

Unseen, Vader pursed scarred lips in annoyance. Jerjerrod had been his first choice for Admiral onboard the _Executor_, on its launch. In fact the man had already accepted and made provisions to pull back from his present position as Quanta Sector's Moff, which was likely how he had come to Palpatine's attention in the first place. There was little point in arguing the fact now, however—particularly with Antilles present.

"The first Death Star was a testing ground," the Emperor said decisively. "The next will be so much more, its superiority such that even before its completion, it will be instrumental in destroying the Rebel insurrection."

Having given Vader his orders, the Emperor turned now to Antilles. "By the time we reach the Corsin Drydock, I expect the intelligence file regarding the Jedi woman to be completed, awaiting my approval."

Antilles nodded, and Vader risked a brief glance to the side, aware from the tone of the Emperor's words that he had spoken previously on this with the boy. Was he to hand the task to Antilles after all, then? And how had the boy managed that? Vader tensed in silent frustration, wondering if Antilles had bought the favor by running to his Master with tales of Vader's non-disclosure of the woman's existence.

When they'd spoken alone in the palace hallway after Kenobi's death, Antilles had made it known that he'd seen images of her escape on security footage from the Death Star …images of her entering the bay where Vader and Kenobi had fought; damning evidence of Vader's decision to withhold the facts from Palpatine. The boy had claimed not to have told his Master, but Vader had no reason to believe him, and if Antilles _had_ gone running to whisper such accusations in the Emperor's ear, then of course he would be awarded the task of hunting the Jedi down for a clean kill.

Vader's head twitched, his anger at the malicious youth beside him whipped up once more as Palpatine spoke on, tone brusque.

"An agent has been assigned this mission, and will pick up the dossier in several days' time. Leave no detail out, however small."

"No, Master." The boy lowered his head and for a second, as the Emperor looked away, he turned just slightly towards Vader without once looking at him, that deep unease tamped down.

Vader kept his gaze ahead, but frowned, confused. He'd been so sure that the boy told Palpatine everything…of all things to withhold, why this? A second later his hands curled to fists, the leather about them creaking quietly; the boy most likely believed that he could use it as leverage against Vader. That would be the reason.

If he thought for one second that it would work…but then Antilles had far greater leverage, and he knew it. So why this?

The Emperor tilted his head a fraction, perhaps noting Vader's sideways glance at Antilles. "On its completion, you will have time to accompany Lord Vader and myself on a tour of the Death Star's construction facility. The decision of your attendance had already been made, but as I recall, Lord Vader seemed most eager to ensure that you travelled with this armada."

Antilles looked briefly to Vader, visibly surprised, leaving Vader freshly irritated at Palpatine's deliberate slip, knowing that the boy would quickly realize his intent: to ensure that Antilles was here with the armada and so under Vader's scrutiny, limiting the youth's ability to access his son.

The Emperor's mouth twitched, briefly betraying his amusement at the constant low-level battles between his advocates, even if he didn't care what this particular contention was. His next play was a classic move, designed to instill resentment and insecurity in one and always short-lived superiority in the other.

"You are dismissed, Antilles. I will speak with Lord Vader alone."

The boy's chin lifted a fraction, but he bowed and backstepped before turning about to leave. As the door slid open the watchful Corellian was momentarily visible on the main Bridge. Straightening, he glanced just once inside, then turned to follow close at Antilles' heels.

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Alone now, Vader looked from the closing door back to his Master. Palpatine's eyes remained there as he voiced his thoughts, his tone that of someone at the end of their patience with a recalcitrant pupil. "In many ways it is good that he didn't corner the Jedi woman when he was alone. He still harbors naïve sentimental frailties, and if anyone could pry open such cracks in his armor, it would be a Jedi. Yes…it's become clear of late that I cannot risk allowing such a power to fall out of my control—and I have a more important undertaking for the boy closer to home." As if realizing that he was speaking aloud, Palpatine straightened, looking to Vader. "Your task, in the meantime, is to track down the Rebels. They must remain your priority… But be ready to move should I command it, to intercept and receive the Jedi when she's captured."

"By whom?"

"I have sent Jade after Kenobi's padawan, with instructions to find out all that she can, but not act against her yet."

Vader remained silent, working to still his thoughts. He wasn't entirely happy about Palpatine having discovered the woman. It irked him that Antilles had been right in his accusing diatribe when Vader had confronted him in private, following Kenobi's death. Vader _had_ thought to hunt her down and try to turn her, to gain him the power to stand against Palpatine, at last. Tiny spores of dissent had been lodging in his head for years, but without a second Sith he knew that he was at a stalemate, and to try to move against Palpatine alone would be suicide. Galen Marek had been his opportunity to gain the advantage…but that had been lost, thanks to Antilles.

If he'd known ten years ago what he did now—just what rare ability Kenobi's son would exhibit as time passed—he might even have tried to cultivate a closer connection, in hopes of using him… But that bridge had long-since been burned to cinders, and he knew it. A pity; the boy's aptitude, as he came of age, far surpassed his father's. He could have easily turned on Palpatine…but then Palpatine knew that well enough to keep Antilles on a short leash; the boy would always have been a risky choice.

And the fact was that he no longer needed the woman, either. He had a son…somewhere. He had a son who would stand beside him, and whose power would double his own, enabling him to take down this remnant of necessity and implement his own rule in its place. With his son beside him, he could and would do that… But the first hurdle to that rise to power was to regain his son—and if the way to accomplish that was over Antilles' dead body, then Vader was more than willing to oblige.

"Yes," Palpatine spoke up from his own considered silence, running a cracked and clawed nail across his own lip in thought. "The boy's powers are coming of age, you must agree." Those pale eyes glinted maliciously. "Imagine, had I let you kill him when he first arrived here, as you had wished. I would have lost a power far greater than your own diminished capacity, Lord Vader."

Vader bit silently down on his resentment, both of the Emperor's undisguised taunt, and the boy's very existence.

"Still…" Palpatine looked slowly away, lip lifting in amusement at his own mocking words, "it presents something of a conundrum. After all, as I've said, I cannot very well loose a Sith as powerful as Antilles to wander the galaxy unchecked, even in my name and at my behest. It's simply too much of a risk."

Vader's head twitched straight, because that was the very thing that Palpatine had dangled before Antilles for years now; that at some point he would fulfil his obligations to his Master as an Emperor's Hand, free to move across the galaxy on assigned missions, executing his Master's will.

"No," Palpatine stated categorically. "He's too adaptable, becoming far too capable and self-sufficient, of late. It would be a recipe for insurrection, and I have no intention of becoming an object-lesson in the inadvisability of giving one's own apprentice too much autonomy." Here Palpatine paused to look closely at Vader, shrewd eyes narrowed. "I am neither credulous nor trusting…with any. No. I need the boy close. He will have a new task—a new calling. And if he falters, if he ever shows the slightest wayward tendencies…then at least he is close at hand. You may yet have free rein to remove him, Lord Vader."

The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, almost as an addendum to greater thoughts, took Vader by surprise to the point that for a moment he was uncertain that he had heard correctly. He stared, half pleased at this opportunity, half appalled that even Palpatine could dismiss the boy he had invested so much in, without a single shredded thread of emotion.

Moving on, Palpatine conceded to throw another token gesture in Vader's direction with an offhand flick of his wrist. "I will also bring forward the completion date of the _Executor_, to have it ready for your new squadron's launch in one month's time. Until the second Death Star is ready, we will need something to hold these sanctimonious Rebels in check—particularly if they have a new Jedi among them. You may remain at the Fondor shipyards to oversee its accelerated completion whilst the armada travels on to Sullust."

The early completion of the _Executor_ had been something that Vader had pushed for almost constantly, for over a year now. He should have been pleased, he knew, but now that it was finally dangled before him, it served only to underline just how much his priorities had changed in a few short days. Having ensured that Antilles would be here, and so watchable, he found himself fired with a deep reluctance to leave the armada without having settled the matter of his son's retrieval. "Plans for the Death Star's safe passage through the Sanctuary Pipeline should take priority."

Palpatine paused for only a second in consideration, then bulldozed ahead to his own plans, as ever. "They will…through me."

"The armada should not be broken up whilst you still travel."

The slightest lift at the corner of the Emperor's lip indicated his amusement that Vader had thought for even a second that it might be. "The _Devastator_ will continue to travel in formation whilst you remain at Fondor, until the _Executor's_ launch in four weeks' time, when your squadron will be assembled." He hesitated, though it was for effect rather than out of uncertainty. "You seem reluctant to leave us, Lord Vader."

Vader lowered his eyes, aware that any further effort would only bring his veiled intent further under Palpatine's quicksilver scrutiny. "No, Master. My thoughts were simply on the greater plan."

"Then keep them so," Palpatine said brusquely. "Harass and harry this arrogant, brash little rebellion with constant pressure. Make them ready to risk all, for even a chance at victory. Make them terrified of what you will do, when they become aware that a second, more potent Death Star awaits in the wings—sufficient that they will throw everything into any opportunity to stop it from being completed."

"The moment that they learn of its existence, they will try to move against it," Vader warned.

"I certainly hope so." Those bloodless lips widened to a gratified grin. "Because it will not be nearly as isolated or vulnerable as it seems. Let them come—all of them. Let them believe they pursue some noble objective…they will be walking into a massacre."

Vader didn't disagree with the strategy; after growing up in a galaxy at war with itself, he knew the value and importance of maintaining civil order. Knew how easy it was for the unscrupulous or the subversive to whip civil unrest into armed defiance. Knew how close liberty and anarchy truly were, and how the slightest spark could ignite a wildfire which would raze across entire systems if left unchecked. Knew it with the clarity of one who had lived through civil war—and yet, the man whom he had chosen to follow to guide them out of this chaos, the one he had chosen to support and uphold…seemed no longer the lesser of those two evils.

He pushed the doubts down as he bowed and made his exit, refusing to accept that he could have been so wrong. It had needed an iron will to stem the infighting and drag the galaxy out of war; to hold the bickering factions to peace whether they wanted it or not. He regretted nothing in his implementation of that; he'd done what had needed to be done, and would continue to do so.

But how little he trusted his Master, as time had passed and he'd seen all that Palpatine was capable of.

Here, today, in Palpatine's casually-uttered summing up of Antilles' possible fate, was the sum and the limit of Palpatine's investment in anyone. After nine long years of hard-learned lessons and total loyalty, the boy remained nothing more to Palpatine than a tool to be used for exactly as long as it was to his value, then discarded without a second thought, save to manipulate even that to his advantage. No dignity in servitude or loyalty, even unto death. Vader had no interest in the boy's survival, but to hear him so callously dismissed by the man who had demanded and ensured that he had been the center of the boy's life…was sickening.

It underlined all that he had come to secretly think in the last several years; that this man was not worth Vader's allegiance. Was not worth his loyalty. In a flash of insight, he wondered how many times Palpatine had made a similar promise to Antilles in order to keep the boy's devotion, knowing that this cold, wily, self-serving man would dismiss Vader's years of servitude just as easily because, like the boy's, they meant nothing to him. He believed he _deserved_ them, just as he deserved everything else—the galaxy itself. And Vader had given him that—or at the very least, afforded him that final twist to topple the Jedi themselves from power. He had turned his back on all that he knew, and for what? Empty promises, tainted from the very beginning with the blood of others.

And what did he do, even now? What had he said before leaving, to the man who had come to represent the sum of all his failings, the man he had come to despise? "Yes, Master."

He was no less a slave now than he had been as a boy under twin suns. Worse, because now he remained through nothing more than the obstinate inability to admit his own mistakes. At least Antilles clung to the integrity of blind belief. What was Vader's excuse?

But then to do otherwise would have required of him to take responsibility for so much. So many deaths, so many hard decisions made, even knowing their consequences…for such selfishness. Had it all truly been for Padmé…or had it been his own inability to let her go? His own fear of failure, of loss, as he had lost once before.

'_I couldn't help her!'_

If it had all been for Padmé…then why was he still here? Because the truth was that he didn't for one moment think that she would have approved. She would have been appalled. At what point had love leached into a black tar of frenzied fear?

Alone in the empty corridor Vader slowed, eyes losing focus as his thoughts took precedence entirely. Because now he had the chance to find the son he'd thought long dead—_their_ son…and even that had become a power play; a means to an end, as Vader calculated his unknown son's inherent connection to the Force against Palpatine's raw power. A game of the highest stakes placing that which he should value above all things, at mortal risk.

Had he learned nothing? Worse, had he learned everything, and yet was unable to act upon it, to the point that he would put the one thing that Padmé would have given her life to protect, at risk?

Vader slowed, wondering for the first time…did he even deserve a son?

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Palpatine had watched Vader bow and leave, himself nodding munificently though he was well aware of the veiled duplicity which simmered beneath the surface of his old advocate's compliance. He needed the boy more than ever, he knew; he at least, could be relied upon to remain loyal—though Palpatine had detected something, today. Some shimmer of uncertainty when he'd quizzed Antilles about the Jedi woman. Had watched the boy's eyes flick briefly away as he'd resisted the urge to look towards the door beyond which the Corellian, Solo, waited with barely-controlled tolerance. It hadn't escaped Palpatine's notice that the boy had followed his directive regarding Solo to the word, whilst carefully avoiding its meaning. The Corellian had made the journey, as commanded…and yet Antilles had done everything possible to keep him visible but beyond Palpatine's attention. He was here today, as ordered, yet left outside of the briefing and therefore away from Palpatine's scrutiny…and yet the boy still looked to the Corellian, even when he wasn't present, it seemed.

_Looked to the Corellian_…an interesting phrase. He suspected that Solo may have had some part in unlocking the boy's increasing aptitude, because quite clearly, as he grew closer to Solo, Antilles' skills had focused. But if it was at the cost of Solo coming between Palpatine and the boy, then that was unacceptable. Antilles had slowly raised shields about his mind in the last few years, and that was to be expected as he came of age, but since Solo's arrival, there had been a definite change. Not immediately and not even willingly, Palpatine suspected, but the boy had become… if not actually reticent, then certainly reserved. Circumspect. And as much as the Corellian had done to hone Antilles' abilities, that alone was cause enough to remove him.

It was also proof, to Palpatine's reckoning, that despite all of Palpatine's previous efforts to center the Viscount's attentions, Indo hadn't brought the boy to his full potential, after all. The Viscount hadn't travelled over from the _Relentless_ to the _Conqueror_ today, which would have been a useful tool in revealing the boy's divided attention…which Antilles probably knew, and so had avoided it. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to keep the two separate.

But then Viscount Indo was feeling increasingly threatened by Solo's presence, sufficient that he had again intimated to his Emperor the importance of removing the Corellian—which to Palpatine's ears, simply said that Solo was gaining in favor, whilst Indo feared that his own star was waning. Had it not been for Palpatine's own voiced intentions for Solo, he doubted that the man would have survived the Viscount's dislike even this long. For Indo to have risked speaking out twice in as many days, was rare indeed, and for Indo to be so threatened, then Antilles must have sufficient investment in Solo now, to make a test of worth. Yes; in the end, the specifics of their ongoing dispute didn't matter—save in that they would both serve Palpatine's intent, either way.

Speaking with Lord Vader had clarified for Palpatine that he once again needed to assure himself that he alone was the center of Antilles' life. He was, of course; he knew that. But to underline the fact—for Antilles as much as for himself—was occasionally necessary, as the boy grew. Milestones marked the important rites of passage in one's life, and the boy had reached his next.

Palpatine nodded once, more sure than ever that the time was now. His last juncture had been on the boy's eleventh birthday, just before he had been handed over to Indo. It seemed fitting, then, that this should be his next.

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Han walked the drab, battleship-gray corridors of the Destroyer without comment, a step behind the kid, who had his head down, lost in thought. They hadn't spoken much since the night of the duel. Han had turned up for work the next evening and shut himself in the staff office, and the kid hadn't once come in or tried to talk to him. Maybe they'd both needed some time to calm down, still. Lost in his thoughts, it had been well after midnight before Han had even thought to check the log, and realized that they were heading out by mid-morning the next day.

He'd sent Leia three messages on the comm code she'd given him a week earlier, but she'd replied only that she was fine, and that she was thinking. That she needed some time. Considering all that had happened, he didn't blame her.

When they'd boarded the _Relentless_, by the time they'd been assigned rooms and the kid had attended navigation briefings and itinerary briefings and command structure and whatever-the-hell-else briefings they'd seemed to think was necessary, it had been well past midnight again, and with Indo hovering all day, Han hadn't had a single chance to speak to the kid.

The trip over to the _Conqueror_ had seemed his opportunity, but there'd been two other officers travelling over at the same time, and the shuttle's small passenger compartment didn't exactly make for private conversations. They were alone in the turbolift now though, so Han tried an opener, going with the safe subject of talking business.

"So what'd he say?"

"Nothing, really," kid replied distantly.

"Took him a hell of a long time to say it, then," Han tried. No reaction. "Did he say where we're goin'?"

"Atrivis, the Maw, then the Sanctuary Pipeline."

"Well I know where the first stop is, anyway."

The fact that Luke didn't fill him in was unsettling in itself; kid always told him stuff like that, even when he wasn't meant to. Instead he added to the list.

"We have an unscheduled stop at Drydock IV first, near Corsin."

"Something broken?" It wasn't very likely, but he was trying to get the kid talking.

"No. Palpatine needs to speak to some Moff there."

"Do I know him?"

Luke turned just a fraction, the barest hint of guarded humor entering his voice. "How many Moffs do you actually know?"

"Uhhh…do they have to be alive to count?"

Kid glanced quickly away, a twitch of a smile on his lips. "Jerjerrod. You know him?"

"Did you think for one moment that I might?"

"I was being facetious."

"Yeah? That's so unlike you," Han tried dryly.

Silence, in which only the smooth zip of the repulsor system sounded.

"He's an odd choice, actually," Luke said at last.

"For?"

"For Palpatine's new pet project. Jerjerrod's a good organizer, but he's not Tarkin…" Luke's voice faded to thought. "But then maybe that's the point."

The turbolift doors slid silently open, and they walked another run of near-identical corridors towards the docking bay. The only good thing that could be said of any Star Destroyer's endless corridors was that they always followed the same pattern. Exactly. If you were on the same class of Destroyer, you could pace out the exact same corridors with the exact same destinations, to the meter.

They rounded the corner and passed the massive atmospheric cutoff doors into the busy bay, a flock of assorted supply and personnel shuttles making regulation landings and takeoffs between the close-formation Destroyers.

Luke slowed, spending a few moments too long scrutinizing the shuttles, to Han's mind. He sighed, giving up on the subtle stuff, which was probably pretty pointless with a Sith anyway, and went for it. "Okay, here's the deal. I shouldn't have walked out on you, but you sure as hell shouldn't have given me that reason to."

The kid turned, seeming genuinely surprised. He studied Han for long seconds—actually studied his face looking for clues, instead of simply reading his mind—then he turned quickly away to stare at the shuttles again. "No, you were right to walk out…but I didn't do anything wrong, either." There was a neutrality to his voice; the tone of someone trying hard not to get pulled in.

"You know her—you actually know her. You knew why she was there, why she was distraught. You can't…you can't just push all that aside."

"I can't push a lightsaber attack aside either—not with my bare hands." The kid looked back to Han as they set forward across the busy bay to their waiting shuttle. "You're saying it like it was just me—she had a lightsaber too."

"I'm not looking to lay blame…and she didn't have one when I saw her."

"Oh believe me, she had one earlier—and she was the first to ignite it." His voice rose a little, defensive now. "Do you want to see the open burn I've got on my shoulder, where she took a chunk out of me? Doesn't matter why she did it or what her state of mind was, a saber's still a saber, and hers'll leave a good-sized scar to remember her by."

"That doesn't excuse what you did."

"What I did was take her lightsaber off her, to end the duel."

"You could have just not gone," Han said levelly, not looking to let this escalate into an argument. "What the hell made you go to meet her anyway?"

"Because…" Luke walked quickly up the shuttle's ramp a half-step ahead of Han and without looking at him, still trying so hard not to get pulled into talking. Trying to maintain some distance between them. "I don't know, okay? I thought…if she wanted someone to shout at, it may as well be me."

And there it was, Han realized, his exasperation softening. As ever, the kid had gone to take the blame; take the hit. Because that was what he did—what he had always been expected to do. His voice settled, losing any last trace of edge. "So what happened?"

"I don't know," Luke said, chagrined. "I honestly didn't go there to fight her. I don't…I don't even know if she came to fight me—not really. It just…happened."

They sat in silence for long minutes, in which the shuttle's engines began their pre-takeoff warmup, whining lightly.

"I wouldn't have killed her," Luke said at last, turning to Han. He stared, and the kid glanced quickly down, adding, "But that's not the point. I know that."

Again Han felt his anger subside, knowing that Luke was trying, he really was. "What did you tell the Old Man, when you got back to the palace?"

"I didn't tell him anything," Luke said distractedly. "I blew up the building before I left the Shades."

"You blew up the building!"

"Just a few levels—there was no one else in it." Luke glanced instantly to the side after his quick attempt at reassurance.

Han frowned. "What?"

"There…there was a witness."

"Who?"

"I don't know. A Pau'an."

Han braced, knowing the kid had been taught early that you didn't leave any kind of trail, ever. "What did you do with him?"

"Nothing. I got him out of the building before I blew it, then left him on the sidestreet."

Han hesitated. "You actually…why'd you leave him?"

"I don't know," Luke mumbled. "Stupid—stupid thing to do. I know I should have dealt with him—I know that." His eyes came to Han, bewildered. "I don't even know what I'm doing any more. I'm getting pulled every way at once and I can't…"

"It's okay—it's okay, Luke. You did the right thing."

"No, I didn't!" Kid was beside himself. "You always clean up—always. No evidence, ever."

"It wasn't evidence," Han said quietly. "It was some guy's _life_. You did the right thing."

Luke settled a little; stilled to a brittle silence before he spoke again. "I…I went back to Indo. After Palpatine."

It took a moment for Han to realize what the kid was really saying. When he did, he let out a rough sigh, but what could he say? He'd promised the kid he'd be here, that he wouldn't walk out, no matter what…then he'd done just that at the first hurdle. "Okay…okay, it's just a few nights' lapse, we can—"

"No, it wasn't. It was a decision." Kid let out a long breath as if bracing himself, then looked to Han. "I can't do this, and I can't be who you want me to be, Han—not here. This…it worked like it was, before you came—all of it, you understand? This is for the best. Palpatine said…" Luke broke off from the inarticulate plea, his eyes to the ground.

"What?"

Kid paused as a moment of doubt came over him, visible in the tenseness of his body and the lines on his face, before his features levelled out again. "Doesn't matter—except that he was right, I guess."

He looked to the side viewport, lifting his hand to chew distractedly at his thumbnail. Beside them another shuttle took off from the busy bay, its backwash buffeting theirs just slightly, and both glanced distractedly at it.

"Is…has she said anything?" Luke asked at last, and Han knew exactly who he was talking about. When he remained silent, the kid added, "I know you've spoken to her. Not because I've read your mind," he added quickly, "because…I know you. You'd be going crazy by now if you hadn't."

Han looked down with a sigh. "She's fine. She said she needed to think."

"About what?"

"I have no idea. What did you say to her?"

"Nothing." Luke looked away again to the viewport and the crowded hangar beyond. "Tell her…tell her to watch out for redheads."

"Redheads?"

"Palpatine knows she exists now. He'll send someone after her."

"You know who?"

"Maybe…probably."

"You got a name?"

"They won't know her," he said, very sure. Then he brought his hand up to rub his temples, letting out a long, tired sigh. "I shouldn't have said this much."

"Redheads," Han said, straightening. It was enough, for now. "So…are we okay?"

Luke stared for long moments, as if Han had asked an impossible question…then stood abruptly. "I have to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Will you cover for me?" He spoke like someone looking to move the conversation on, but he was serious enough that he was already two steps towards the shuttle's exit hatch.

Han's voice dropped a wary, worried octave. "Cover for you? What have you done now?"

"Nothing…yet." The kid's eyes went back to the viewport, and the busy bay beyond. "But I need a ride, and that shuttle's going my way."

Han glanced to the nearby cargo shuttle, also in pre-flight. "Wait a minute, this is _your_ shuttle—it's always goin' your way."

"I need something that's going someone else's way—then I get there quietly."

"…Where exactly is there?" Han wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"The _Devestator_."

Vader's Destroyer. Kid was still obsessing about Vader's past, still trying to put it all together to find out who he was…in fact, he was getting worse. Han sighed as he looked down; it seemed an outrageous and unnecessary risk. "What, you're gonna start sneakin' round his ship, now?

"Basically."

Han stared for several seconds…then shook his head quickly. That was just a whole other can of trouble, and he didn't want to even get started with it right now, when there were bigger problems like Indo and spice, and the kid's staying here at all, that needed sorting. "Whatever. But when you get back, we need to talk…about everything. It can't…it can't continue like this, you've gotta know that. We can't keep on doing this."

"I know." The kid lowered his head, regretful and resigned.

"I'm serious."

"I know," Luke said again, strangely resolute. "I know that."

.

.

.

The door to the cockpit slid open as the pilot looked quickly from the exit hatch to Han, probably having seen Luke walk down the ramp and off the shuttle, and wondering whether to take off or not. He glanced quizzically to Han, who nodded, saying simply, "Go."

The man held his eye just a second longer before turning about to the cockpit. As far as he was concerned, his job was to take the shuttle from the _Conqueror_ back to the _Relentless_. Period. However many people turned out to be onboard compared to the outward trip was pretty much irrelevant.

Han felt a flush of envy, at the memory that his life had been like that less than a year ago; just some grunt pilot, doing as he was told…or more likely not, and getting yet another dressing down. Alone, he shook his head, knowing that this had gone on far enough. Wondering if the kid had known how serious he was, when he'd said that it couldn't continue.

Wondering how he'd somehow ended up trying to cover for the kid yet again when they got back to the _Relentless_ and Luke wasn't on the shuttle, because you could be damn sure that Indo would be waiting—probably in the bay itself, foot tapping already. He hadn't really wanted Luke and Han to go alone in the first place, and now Han was gonna walk out onto the _Relentless'_s deck, knowing that the kid was sneaking around onboard the _Devastator_, no less—not that he'd tell Indo that. Or that he really gave a damn about what Indo thought of him. But Luke dropping back onto the spice—and more importantly, sounding like he'd somehow managed to convince himself that it was for the best—was a major blow. Kid had just gotten himself off of it, finally gotten to a point where he actually wanted to—and that was the trick, Han knew; you had to want it, yourself. No amount of someone else telling you would ever get through, you had to actually want it yourself….

So what had changed? Palpatine, by the sounds of it. What the hell had he said, without even knowing it, that had made the kid fall back—convinced him that even trying was pointless?

Then again, if there was one thing the old man knew how to do, it was reset the status-quo in his own favor.

He wondered briefly if maybe Leia could get through to Luke where nobody else could—she seemed to be his one weakness, right now.

To his memory, when Han had finally managed to shoulder the door open in the eatery, Luke had been crouched in front of a visibly injured Leia with a lit lightsaber in his hand…but thinking back, it had been angled down; turned slightly away. Like the kid had just said, he hadn't been about to make any kind of blow. Clearly it had gotten messy, and both of them had ended up hurt, but in that moment, Han had only noticed Leia's injuries. That was what had made him see red and drag Luke back like he had. What had made him turn his back and walk out of there. But when his own adrenalin had finally ebbed, he'd already realized that they'd been past that. They'd been talking, that was all, as Luke had just claimed.

His thoughts slipped back to Leia for a moment, no idea what he was going to do on that front—even less, in the bigger scheme of things. Or maybe he did…and it was just takin' him a while to admit it to himself. Because he'd meant it when he'd told the kid that they couldn't continue like this.

But the trouble was, Luke had the balance of a whole hell of a life lived here dragging him down, and Palpatine's control was just too strong. Kid simply couldn't imagine a life any other way—couldn't let himself. Couldn't hope.

So where did you go from here? Where did _Han_ go?

He shook his head just slightly, eyes on the looming bulk of the _Relentless_ as the shuttle dropped beneath her, heading for the aft docking bay. There was a time when returning to any Star Destroyer that he was stationed on had felt like a homecoming. Now...he couldn't quite pin down when exactly he'd ceased to fit any more, couldn't even figure out whether his views had changed or just…clarified.

Yeah, he knew exactly where to go—he just didn't like it.

He needed to contact Leia.

.

.

.

.

.

Luke walked down gray corridors, each the same as the next, hard floors and plain enclosed walls which reverberated every bootstep, along with the background hiss and hum of air exchanges and gravity regulators. It should have been easy to lose one's way in the massive flying fortress, but Luke had travelled on them as long as he could remember, and knew every turn and room and bay on every floor from memory.

So he walked now with one thing in mind: avoiding notice. He passed others of course; this was a Destroyer in full flight, there were constant comings and goings, especially in the habitation decks, with one third of the crew always asleep and one third off-duty.

But even with the residual drag of spice still swimming around his system, it wasn't hard to gently shunt the minds of those he walked past elsewhere, so that they looked past or through him, despite there being little else to look at.

Wasn't hard to find the quarters he was searching for, despite the increased security in the upper levels. All of the quarters to either side were, to Luke's searching senses, empty. Very likely even senior officers had chosen to take quarters elsewhere.

He felt weary and woolly, stretched thin by a mixture of spice and tiredness. Perhaps that was why he'd spoken to Han earlier. Short as it was, it had been a mistake; a momentary lapse, allowed because Luke hadn't wanted Han to leave whilst they were on bad terms. Hadn't wanted him to think that Luke would be so petty as to dismiss him because of what had happened after the duel with Leia. But nothing had changed for the talk, neither the greater situation nor Luke's resolve that it was best to fall back into the way things had been before. Even Han knew that they couldn't keep on like this. Hadn't he said the same, in the shuttle—that they couldn't continue.

He reached the end of the long corridor and turned into one of the few that actually had viewports set into its length along one side, a subtle indicator of the importance of those who kept quarters here—and paused at the locked door. On impulse, he tried a Ubiqtorate override code. Nothing. A Hand override code; nothing. Luke tilted his head, surprised at that, though he'd bet that it should have worked.

He could have closed his eyes and rested his hand on the locking mechanism, of course; could have used the Force to turn the tumblers and grind the lock open. Could have simply used brute force and levered the security-rated door back against the lock's pull…but he was keeping his presence closely shielded, aware that Vader would probably have returned to the _Devastator_ by now.

Instead, he input one of his Master's override codes…and the door slid silently open.

He slipped quickly inside, pausing as the corridor brightened to a useable level. A brief smile took his face as Luke imagined just what exactly Indo would do, had he known where Luke was. He'd considered briefly whether to tell Indo everything, then had dismissed it out of hand as being painfully naïve, if he didn't want the facts to go back to Palpatine. Though even Indo would likely have tried to keep this particular secret—the truth of Luke's heritage—hidden. Indo's protection of him was, Luke knew, also a protection of Indo's own ambitions, and to pass Luke's knowledge back to Palpatine would destroy both.

So was it self-protection…or denial, that kept Luke silent? Or even simple need? The desire to fill that gap in his life, that had been ripped away by Palpatine…no, not Palpatine; by himself.

He was feeling Han's absence keenly. Feeling the need to tell someone—anyone—the truth, just to watch their reaction, as if somehow that would give him permission to feel something himself. To know what to feel.

Perhaps he should be more like Vader. As insular and independent, needing no one. How much easier it must be. All he had to do was learn not to feel. Not to care.

Strange; he'd never once thought that he should be more like his Master. He'd thought that he should try to be what his Master wanted him to be, but had never once wanted to be like him.

His mind went to Bail Organa. To the memories he secretly cherished even as he tried to dismiss them, at Palpatine's order. But he couldn't. He couldn't, because they were everything to him. The secret he'd held hidden at his very core, unable to purge because they were so intricately tied up with his own guilt; with his knowledge of what he truly was. He was aware, of course, of how much he inadvertently looked for that lost relationship, even now. Aware of the void that he tried to fill. Of the weakness inherent in such need—and his Master was right; it was a weakness.

It was that which had held Luke to torn silence on the night of Kenobi's death, when he'd been dragged in front of the Emperor by Vader, struggling to hold together under fire. Yet he'd held back from incriminating Vader in return, even though he knew—he _knew_—that he wouldn't find in his real father, all that had meant so much to him in Bail Organa. But the memory of all that Bail Organa had meant to Luke had still stayed his hand, in that moment.

Luke paused as the entrance to the main room slid open into a big space, empty save for one massive structure to its center, so big that it must have been assembled inside the room. Black within a black room, a huge globe which split along its central equator into interlocking halves, it was a hyperbaric chamber.

Only a handful of the most senior officers knew that Vader's suit was more than a personal choice. Luke had known as long as he could remember. Whilst still a child, he'd been taken into Lord Vader's rooms in the palace by the Emperor, specifically to show him this 'weakness'; to tell him that it had been inflicted in a duel, with Kenobi. To warn Luke that he would suffer the same, likely at Lord Vader's hand, if he failed to practice sufficiently.

It had seemed terrifying to him at the time, this huge domed chamber which split open to swallow up its occupier, its interlocking edges like the teeth of some mechanical beast.

Luke slowed as he approached it. The chamber was open but deactivated, a single seat at its center surrounded by external data links and the equipment necessary to monitor the chamber's functions. Stark and impersonal, it was the sterility of it which took him, now. No childish nightmares; just cold, hard reality.

What must it be like, to be trapped in that suit, save in this chamber? To rely on such equipment completely, to keep him alive. It was hardly the image that Vader sought to put forward. He liked to wear his armour on the outside, a visible barrier blocking all access, denying any concept of humanity. Luke carried his scars and his shields deeper, he knew, but they were just as impenetrable—Palpatine had seen to that. Had taken great care to help him build those diamond shields, the path through them known and chartable only to himself.

Because the shields which protected also isolated—both Vader and Luke knew that; maybe even understood it of the other, in some way. It was likely the nearest they had ever come to any kind of connection—and even then, it was light-years apart.

But for himself, Luke had long since learned that with his shields well hidden as opposed to blatantly, defiantly visible, he could—when he chose—make himself seem reassuringly approachable; trustworthy even. His youth and slight, unthreatening physique were advantages to be used, as he'd been trained to use everything else in his life, for his Master's benefit.

His Master, who had lied to him; told Luke that his father was Kenobi. Told Vader the same, instigating a deep and fierce antipathy.

Should he be angrier, he wondered? Outraged, perhaps? The truth was, he didn't feel anything other than numb disillusionment. Perhaps because he'd had far worse piled on his shoulders by his Master, when he'd been just as young. All for the loyalty that Luke would have given anyway, had he simply asked. The concept of not doing so was inconceivable.

Hand resting lightly on the cool shell of the hyperbaric chamber, it occurred to him for the first time to wonder what else Vader believed he had lost to Kenobi… Whether his Master, looking to guarantee that same loyalty from Vader, had twisted the truth to tell a tale in which Kenobi hadn't simply stolen Luke away, but had taken Vader's son from him entirely; killed him.

Was this why Vader had been so driven? Why he had despised Luke with such vehemence, believing him to be Kenobi's son, still alive, when his own son was dead by Kenobi's hand?

Luke felt a brief swell of longing to be that lost child—to tell all, even though he knew that it wouldn't be the outcome he wanted. That there would be no great, forgiving reunion, no prodigal son in his father's eyes. He had to put that from his head. Couldn't let himself think it, because it would only be another blow, another abandonment—though this time, he would at least be braced. It would after all, be the second time, in Luke's short life.

And yet he was here, to ask more of the man whose hatred he had sensed so clearly in the earlier meeting—which was a good thing. It kept Luke's own shields raised; made old habits that much easier to give free rein to, in self-defense.

At the far side of the room, almost hidden by the bulk of the massive hyperbaric chamber, was a second door. It slid aside as Luke approached, leading into a wide room whose stately run of viewports stretched its entire length, giving an unobstructed view across the convoy of destroyers, their deadly bulk and massive scale reduced to a serene if sinister scene, like shoaling sharks in deep water.

On the near wall were those familiar large prints of technical plans, hung in an ordered row above sparse furnishings, the room softly lit by a single spotlight, which shone down onto the contents of a single console table, to the far wall. Luke walked to the viewports, where a datapad had been placed with meticulousness care on a second console table, its corner precisely aligned with the table's edge. Lifting it, he touched the screen to activate it. He was still flicking through files when his head came sharply up, aware of a presence in the room beyond. He braced, squaring his shoulders; it would take only seconds…

The door slid open, and Darth Vader's bulk filled it entirely

.

.

.

Vader had known as soon as he entered his quarters that someone had been here, and felt within the realization a flare of outrage that anyone would dare. He'd strode quickly across the main room, empty save for the looming bulk of the hyperbaric chamber, unbelieving that anyone would have the gall to skulk any further into…

The rear door slid aside to a barely lit room, and standing in the sanctity of his private chamber…was Antilles.

Vader's shoulders dropped and his hackles rose as the boy turned, holding in one hand the datapad that Vader had been using earlier, its screen reactivated.

He tilted it just slightly, so that Vader saw the technical plan of the Advanced TIE engine whose finer mechanics he had been working on.

"You doubled up the tertiary feedback link coming out of the compressor," the youth said casually, as if nothing was amiss in his being here.

"Finer divisions will disperse the ions more efficiently," Vader replied in kind.

"They'll go into phase," the boy dismissed.

"A pico-shunt wired into the binary splitter will deliver power to the second link with a millisecond delay, and thus offset the risk of phasing."

Antilles brought the datapad back round to study it closer, blinking slowly. "Interesting," he said at last.

"Get out." It was barely more than a growl.

Indifferent to the very real threat, Antilles' hand went to the datapad, finger tracing something across its screen as its light reflected onto his face in shuttered shifts, in the semi-darkened room. "I know why you checked that I was with the convoy," he said at last, eyes still on the pad. "It makes no difference."

"Where is he?"

"Safe." Antilles' lip twitched in amusement at that as his eyes came back to Vader. "Though that's always a relative term, I find."

"Where?" It was a demand wrapped within a very real threat. The boy didn't speak, but simply held that enigmatic half-smile. Frustration percolated to a cold fury within Vader, thoughts of dropping the boy where he stood, or using the Force to hurl him backwards against the wide viewport behind him with bone-breaking strength, demanding to be fed.

But now was not the time—not with Antilles holding his son captive. Though it bought him immunity for exactly as long as it took for Vader to pry his son free, and they both knew it. "Did you tell him?"

Antilles frowned for a second, unsure. "Tell him what?"

"My message."

"Ah. Yes, he knows all you said."

It was Vader's turn to hesitate now, aware of the subtle evasion in Antilles' calm voice, though he couldn't quite lock down why. He was telling the truth…but not all of it—not even nearly. "His reply?"

"I don't remember saying that this was a two-way thing."

"You don't have him at all," Vader goaded, looking to draw Antilles out; force his hand. "Kenobi had him. He gave you the sample." It was the next logical choice, given the timing.

"No, he didn't," Antilles stated categorically.

Sensing the truth in his words, Vader mentally ticked Kenobi and the Alliance off of his list of possibilities.

"Palpatine, then."

"No…and I'm not going to spend the next hour playing twenty questions with you while you whittle down where he could be."

With no choice, Vader ground out the words that the boy was probably waiting to hear, not for one second disguising his disgust. "What do you want?"

The boy stared…and so much crossed those pale blue eyes in that moment. Wariness, repressed curiosity, uncertainty, as if he knew this would end badly for him—and it would end badly, Vader would see to that.

"I don't really know," he admitted at last, letting the datapad in his hand drop to his side. "That's the problem. Answers, I suppose."

"To what?"

Antilles looked Vader up and down as the moment hung, seeming…fascinated, eyes narrowed in consideration. "Who were you," he asked quietly at last. "You were somebody once, weren't you? Not like me. I've always been this."

His voice was level and matter of fact…but there was awareness in his words; the soulful knowledge of opportunities lost. It moved Vader not a whit.

"Why do you want to know?"

Antilles tilted his head in a shrug. "I found myself wondering, over the last few days, how this all came about—how Lord Vader came to have a son. He knows nothing at all, your son—nothing about who he was."

"You said you had told him."

"But I can tell him only that one fact. I have nothing else, nothing at all." Antilles paused. "So I'm offering you a pact…I want the truth. And in return, I'll tell your son. He has questions…and I have no answers for him."

Vader laughed, the sound a rough rasp as it filtered through his mask. "I'll tell you nothing."

"Why?"

"You don't deserve to know." He spat the words through curled lips, believing them completely.

"And your son?"

"When he's here, I will tell him all that he asks. But you'll be long gone by then, dead at my hand—or my son's…perhaps I'll give him that opportunity."

A brief smile played on Antilles' lips. "He's as likely to do it as you are, I suppose. More so, I sometimes think."

"Then it's unlikely you'll live long enough to see me reunited with my son…or if you do, it will be your last day."

Again the boy loosed a brief, dry, half- suppressed laugh, and Vader bristled. "You find that amusing."

"A little…but then I'm told I have a dark sense of humor."

"Give me the boy…and walk away from this alive," Vader growled.

"Why do you want him?"

A flare of guilt broadsided Vader at the simplicity of the unexpected question, and he fought to tamp it down before this most perceptive of audiences, willing to show the boy nothing. Still…why did he want his son? Was it simple possessiveness; that the boy was his? Raw ambition, that his son represented Vader's greatest ever chance to remove Palpatine…or something stronger than both. Something primal. It was a long time since Vader had felt anything even approaching fear, but it burned right now in the pit of his stomach, both at the prospect of losing his son…and the prospect of meeting him.

Antilles stared expectantly…and Vader's lip curled beneath his undisguised study. "It is none of your concern."

"Except that I hold him, and you don't. That makes it my concern."

"That makes it your death warrant."

The youth stared for several seconds, calculating…then glanced about the room, before speaking quickly—not nervous, not threatened, simply…moving the conversation on. "What's the sculpture, in your apartment in the palace? The driftwood?" He walked the length of the room as he spoke, to stand before a piece of sculptural sandstone on a wide console, lit from above by the room's single activated light. A smooth-edged oval with a naturally sand-worn hole off-center, it stood on a bora-wood plinth, its reflection mirrored in the polished ebony console.

It, like the large petrified branch of sand-smoothed caulus-wood in Vader's apartment, was a distant echo from his hidden past…though he had no intention of admitting that to the boy.

Instead, he folded his arms across his chest. "How long has Palpatine known of my son's existence?" It was more demand than question, but Antilles didn't turn.

Instead, he continued to study the smooth sandstone. "It's unsigned."

"It is not art," Vader said finally. "It is nature."

The youth straightened, the smile that Vader couldn't see audible in his voice. "Then it's the relationship between the object and its owner that becomes of relevance." He spoke distantly, his attention on the datapad which he had lifted to write something on, unseen. "The ultimate expression of idiosyncratic abstraction." He paused to turn his head, tone mischievous, as if sharing an insider truth. "Art is in the eyes of the beholder."

"I am not interested in your ability to regurgitate philosophical—"

"You're from a desert."

Vader remained silent, though Antilles had turned back to the datapad as he spoke. "It was eroded by sand, not water, like the larger piece on Coruscant. Since you keep them, but claim they have no artistic worth, their value must be intrinsic; personal."

"They are irrelevant."

Antilles glanced around the spartan room. "You don't strike me as someone who keeps irrelevant objects."

Grinding his jaw, Vader held staunchly to his own line of questioning, refusing to allow the boy to lead the conversation. "How long has Palpatine known of my son?"

The youth stared for long seconds as Vader held still…but finally tipped his head just slightly in allowance, throwing the datapad that he'd held onto the console with a flick of his wrist, where it clattered across the mirror-polished surface. "A long time. I told you, I don't have specific facts. I simply have the knowledge of his existence."

So it was true that he hadn't gleaned what little he knew from his Master, then. "Is he looking for the boy?"

Antilles stared, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "Why do you care?"

"Answer my question," Vader rasped.

"Answer mine," Antilles replied, undaunted.

Distasteful as it was, Vader knew that at least partly answering these questions gained him several advantages. Firstly, Antilles remained his best chance at finding out where his son was confined, and the longer he kept the youth here, speaking, the more likely he was to make a mistake. And secondly…secondly, it simply kept the boy talking about Vader's son. Because somewhere within a flame flickered; fascination, about the child he'd never seen. Did he have his mother's eyes, her chestnut hair? Did he have her fire and her innate empathy…or his father's quick temper? Vader remembered so little of himself, now. Burned and disfigured, locked in this suit for years, he barely remembered the color of his hair or the set of his jaw. Didn't care to look, to see how the years and the Darkness had eaten into him. Didn't wish to remember the youth who had felt driven to this.

But he remembered her exactly. Every subtlety of her presence and features; limpid brown eyes capable of expressing so much without a single word uttered, soft, full lips that smiled so readily. Such innate strength, delicate as she was. Would his son hold that same strength? That same integrity, that deep-seated sense of duty and honor?

Would he have her eyes? Her manner, her nimble build? Vader looked at the youth before him as never before, knowing from memory that his son would be just half a year older. A little taller, then, his body less gaunt, from the years of abuse that Antilles had withstood at the hands of the Master he still held such fundamental loyalty for. His skin less pale, the dark circles that always rimmed Antilles' eyes non-existent. His hair darker, perhaps, but just as unkempt, as Anakin's had been, in his youth.

His only way to find out, was to tolerate Kenobi's son for a little while longer. Tolerate this. Then he could deal the final blow, could rip him limb from limb—a fitting end for Kenobi's son, at Vader's hand.

So he ground his jaw as his fists curled tighter in pent up fury, aware that he had only a short time in which to find out all that he could to gain him his son, before he would have to leave the fleet at Fondor…which meant that he should take every opportunity to try to uncover the smallest fragments about his son's whereabouts. In days he would be planet-bound, with no opportunity to try to search himself. A month, no less! Despite the fact that they had been a lifetime apart, the thought of one more month, now that he knew of his son's existence, seemed intolerable.

"You will not protect him from your Master, I know that."

"And you would?"

It was the sense of knowing doubt in the youth's words that needled Vader; of dry disbelief. "More so than you."

"You never…" The boy hesitated, glanced away, then back again; stopping himself, then saying it anyway. "You never once protected me."

"You deserve each other." Vader snarled without compunction.

Antilles looked down with another brief, dry laugh. "Very probably. But I didn't when I first came here." It was almost an accusation. Almost an appeal.

"You were nothing," Vader growled in umbrage. "If I'd had my way, you would have been dead that first night. As it is, you've learned your Master's lessons too well. I'm surprised you haven't run to him already. Set this up as a trap at my expense, with the reward for uncovering my supposed disloyalty that you remove my son yourself—just as you did Marek."

"Is that all you want him for—to overthrow Palpatine?" There was offense in his words, indignation raising his voice.

"No. You could not possibly understand."

"If he's worth so very much to you, why did you leave him in the first place?"

"I did not leave him, I believed him lost."

"A little remiss of you, Lord Vader, to misplace your own son. Why didn't you look for him?"

"Dead," Vader snapped in curt explanation. "I believed him dead, along with his mother."

Something in the boy's face changed—barely a fraction, and carefully concealed. "How?"

"By my hand." He spat the words before he'd thought to censure them, his desire to intimidate Antilles momentarily overriding his realization that the boy would run and tell his son with malicious glee.

He received the reaction he'd sought—the deeply disturbed jolt of shock that flashed with sudden intensity across pale blue eyes—for all of two seconds. But for a decade now, Vader had loosed every shred of vindictive retribution on Kenobi's son for the sins of his father, unchecked and without the slightest qualms. There was likely nothing left that the boy believed he wouldn't do, nothing he believed Vader incapable of. So the boy's revulsion faded quickly into a muted curiosity, threaded through with a strand of injured bewilderment.

But no judgement, even for this…perhaps because he had been subjected to more than his fair share of horrors at Palpatine's hand, as well as Vader's. Had grown up in a life where darkness and vindictive death were the norm, and been manipulated or bullied or coerced into turning on those few he cared for, by Palpatine.

In a moment of sudden clarity, Vader was surprised that Antilles had flinched at all.

Out of his desire to repel the boy came this brief moment of empathy, reluctant and instantly rejected, yet still somehow reflected in those searching blue eyes, and the muted tone of Antilles' words, reduced to a perceptive whisper.

"What did you do?"

Vader instantly wanted to take the moment back, to ask Antilles to say nothing to his son—but how could he? "You are not the one I need answer to," he said at last, ill at ease.

"I was…I was the one who suggested to Palpatine that you remain on Fondor, with the _Executor_," Antilles said at last, inexplicable contrition in his unexpected admission.

"To keep me safely locked down." He should be furious, Vader knew, but his anger was spent, drained beneath memories of a greater guilt, and it was no worse than he had done to the boy anyway, in making sure that Antilles was part of the armada in the first place.

"I thought…" Antilles hesitated in a wave of uncertainty, "whilst you were on Fondor, you could…if I gave you the opportunity to speak with him—by comlink…"

Vader straightened, resisting the urge to take a step forward, such was this opportunity!

Seeing it Antilles almost panicked, rushing to place proviso's, as if he'd made the offer without thinking this through. "I said _if_. When I return to the palace, _if_ I'm sure you're still on Fondor, and when I have an untraceable system set up..."

In that moment, none of the backtracking mattered to Vader. It didn't matter what petty safety measures Antilles felt he needed to put into place to save his own hide, didn't matter that Vader would be systems away on Fondor. It was a chance, a step closer, and Vader grasped at it.

"Let me speak to him now."

"No." The boy glanced down, instantly evasive.

"Why?"

Antilles shook his head rapidly, not stopping even as he spoke. "I don't trust you. I've never had a single reason to, and you've not given me any tonight. You'll walk away."

"Walk away? From what?" Vader asked warily. "What games are you playing now?" His voice dropped lower, to a distrustful growl. "Do you have him or not?"

"Yes." The youth's voice was quiet but honest, edged once more with that same evasive twist; the truth, but not even nearly all of it.

"Then you know I will not walk away."

What should have reassured seemed only to increase the boy's nervousness as he stared through troubled eyes, searching for what, Vader didn't know. His whole demeanour hinted once again at that sense of someone who had started a course of action which he now regretted, but saw no way to step back from. Very suddenly he turned, his need to be gone blaring out.

Did he genuinely believe he'd made an error in his offer to Vader, or was he simply playing the part—dangling the bait before he sprang the trap. Vader hadn't been making empty claims in when he'd accused Antilles of having learned his Master's lessons too well.

Yet when the boy walked quickly past him and to the door, against every inch of better judgment, Vader still spoke out. "Wait—"

Antilles paused as Vader took a step forward, aware that his own desire to prolong this burned, because even though it was torture, it was something. Some connection. He hesitated…and swallowed his pride. "What is his name?"

Antilles blinked, as if taken completely by surprise at the simple request. "What?"

"His name," Vader repeated. "What is his name?"

The youth lifted his chin a fraction, still struggling to regain his composure, his reply little more than a thinly-disguised evasion. "What's yours—your real name."

Vader paused, reluctant to give the youth anything when he was so clearly searching for facts from Vader's past. But it was long-since closed, the truth of his prior identity erased at the same time that all records of the Jedi had been removed. Antilles would get nothing of value from it save a name and a birthplace, and would have no excuse not to tell Vader his son's name in return. There was no harm in this; a simple name from the distant past… "Anakin. Anakin Skywalker."

The change was instant, a quicksilver run of emotions which flared within the boy's senses; confusion, uncertainty, recognition; a jarring jolt of shock—genuine alarm.

Then he was backstepping, murmuring excuses to leave, all composure utterly shattered…

And Vader was alone, wondering what had finally held the power to reduce the boy to this.

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He glanced across the room, eyes drawn to the bright light of the still-active datapad screen, abandoned on the console table. Curious, he walked forward to lift it—and stared…

Using the tip of his finger as a stylus, Antilles had sketched a rough image. Having seen him do it as he had asked Vader about the worn sandstone form displayed on the console, Vader had assumed that it would be that. Instead, it was a swiftly-made sketch of an open landscape, high cliff faces and deep ravines marked by bright light and strong shadows. And looming in the foreground was a huge craggy rock formation, its softer surfaces long since eroded by high winds and harsh desert sand, leaving a yawing hole in its center. Though quickly drawn, its distinctive shape was instantly and unmistakeably recognizable to Vader, even after all these years.

It was the Stone Needle, in Beggars Canyon on Tatooine.

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Reality shuttered about Luke as he walked quickly down long corridors, hazy and indistinct, the moment when Vader had admitted his real name playing over and over in his thoughts. Was it real? He hadn't been lying, Luke knew that, but… his thoughts reeled, trying to process the impossible, to dismiss it and make everything safe again, though it blared over and over, unignorable.

Was it true? Could it possibly be anything other than…

Skywalker—Leia Skywalker, a Jedi knight raised by Kenobi. The irony of it left him dizzy—that each of them had grown up beside the other's father. Only not so, of course, because Kenobi wasn't Luke's father, not really.

First his real father had abandoned him, then Kenobi, the man he'd believed for so long was his father, had handed him over to Bail and Breha, only to have them ripped away by Palpatine, leaving Luke alone again…and now Vader, yet again. Because he had made it very clear once more tonight that, once he knew that his son was the same person he'd spent years berating and condemning, he would want nothing to do with him.

Luke stopped dead in the corridor, hands coming up to cover his face at his own stupidity; what had possessed him to offer a direct conversation by comlink! What had he been thinking? He hadn't, obviously. He'd just had some vague and stupid need to hear his father—his real father—speak _to_ him with that same dedication that he spoke _of_ him. Wanted to be that person, that son, if only for a short while. Because once he knew the truth, Luke knew damn well that Vader would walk away.

He dragged himself back to the moment, trying hard to ignore the hollow that opened up inside him at the realization of that. The slip in his words, as he'd admitted his knowledge to Vader.

He set off again, still shaking his head in self-censure…and the memory of Vader's name stopped him again as Kenobi's words drifted back to him, when the old man had handed over the identity of Luke's father: _"I came here to tell you the truth…but it can be a dangerous thing. A powerful thing."_

"_You want to know that I won't use the knowledge as a weapon."_

Luke hadn't realized until now how completely Kenobi's thoughts had been on Leia when he'd said, "_Yes…yes, I do."_

He'd _known_ that Luke and Leia were siblings. That was the weapon that Kenobi had feared Luke would use against Leia…

Did she know? Did Leia know the truth about herself and Luke? Luke slowed in the corridor, trying to fathom the facts. No, surely not; she couldn't, given Kenobi's fears. And Luke would have known if she had; she was so easy to read…

He let his head drop backwards, closing his eyes; easy to read—like his father. Another slow sigh escaped Luke, as he shook his head; Kenobi. "Why didn't you tell me," he murmured in the empty corridor, too many wild truths battering him. More importantly, why hadn't he told Leia? He'd had all the time in the galaxy. Why keep all these secrets when…ah.

They stood on opposite sides of the divide, he and Leia, in a conflict which had raged their whole lifetime, and had no common ground. For millenia, in fact; forget this petty little rebellion, the civil war that had instigated it, the rise of the Empire and the fall of the Republic. Sith and Jedi had existed before all of them; had built civilizations and toppled them in crusades that had burned through the eons. That was the weight that divided he and Leia, the chasm that stood between them, and Kenobi had known it. Had known that because of it, he was training Leia to eventually stand against Luke.

Yet he'd told Luke about his father. Surely he'd known that in doing so, he'd given Luke the first step along a path which would eventually uncover the truth. Had he thought—hoped—that in revealing it, he would instil the weakness in Luke that he'd hoped to protect Leia from? That single instant of hesitation, when the moment came? The split-second between equally-matched duellists, which would mean life or death.

Luke straightened, jaw flexing. If so, he was wrong. He was wrong! He was… His shoulders loosed as his eyes narrowed, part in indignation at having been played, part in study of the inescapable results. Because he was, he knew, hopelessly entangled, now. Or had he been compromised already, simply in meeting her; by the very fact of her existence?

Was that what it was; was it that which had driven Luke to fight for her life at the Death Star's trench? To let her walk free countless times? He'd told himself that it was Han, that he'd done it for Han…but it had been more than that. A thread stitched directly into his soul, which tugged whenever she seemed in danger.

He set forward again to walk into the freight hangar unseeing, heart pounding, thoughts racing, feeling…what? He had no idea—no idea what he was supposed to feel. No words for the breathless sensation that gripped him, the rush that coursed through him in this moment… It felt so much like raw terror—and yet it had a lightness to it, a nervous buzz, part dread, part elation.

He hesitated, terrified to admit it even to himself, for fear that simply in knowing, he would somehow taint and eventually damn it, as he already had with his father. But after a life alone and isolated, prey to Palpatine's manipulations and accusations and constant lies…

He had a sister, too.

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It must have been two hours in all, before Luke returned to the _Relentless_. When he did so, he went straight to Han's quarters. Habit, he guessed.

Habit he was going to have to break.

Han watched him enter and sit in silence at the upright chair before the small desk, himself making no move to speak. Automatically Luke pulled out the drawer beneath it, and took one of the sheets of flimsy that he knew were stored there. Reaching into his inner pocket, he brought out Han's old stylus and began to sketch from memory, as Han moved to sit opposite him.

He let Luke sketch for a while, his curiosity a narrow tendril, like a curl of smoke hanging in the air as Luke redrew the image he'd picked out of Vader's head, of the hollow rock formation set close to tall sandstone bluffs,

When Han finally spoke, the question was unexpected. "You ever use the stuff I got you?"

"No." It was a lie, for no other reason than to keep Han at bay. But as ever, he wouldn't be.

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"That's the best you got? That's not even an excuse."

Luke lifted his head slightly. "You want it back?"

"No."

He could sense Han's confusion as to why he was being so belligerent. He didn't understand; anger built walls, and walls maintained distance. And distance was safe—for Luke and everyone else.

"I got a question for you," Solo pushed.

Luke didn't raise his head. "Another? You had one of those last week."

"Well here's this week's…why haven't you ever drawn Leia?"

His stylus stopped its scratchy motion for just second…then continued. " I don't remember what she looks like."

"Right. What about yourself, you never draw yourself either. D'ja forget what you look like, too?"

"A long time ago." Concentrating, he continued scratching deep shadows into the rough bluffs.

"Well I'm glad we got that cleared up," Solo muttered dryly, gaze dropping to the sheet of flimsy. "So what're you drawin'?"

"Not sure."

"…Whose head are you inside this time?"

"Was," Luke corrected. "Vader's."

"Still trying to figure that out, huh?"

Luke slowed, then stopped entirely, staring at the sketch for long seconds… Abruptly he stood and grabbed the flimsy sheet, screwing it up to throw it across the table. "You're right. Indo's right. I'm wasting my time. Stupid—stupid to even try! I'm already in too deep. I don't learn—I never learn!" As he spoke he curled one hand into a fist to beat it against his own forehead in frustration at this constant failing.

"What are you talkin' about?" Han rose, disconcerted.

"I'm talking about going to speak to Vader…I'm talking about being here, right now!"

"I didn't say that—any of it."

"You should have—I should have. Indo…Indo _would_ have—and he'd be right."

"Nothing about Indo is right. He's just a cold-hearted son of—"

"No, he understands," Luke said emphatically. "He does it for me, can't you see that? He allows that distance! I like that detachment—I _need_ it."

"And the spice?"

"It isn't about that," Luke dismissed. "Indo understands, he knows that I have to stay focused."

"On Palpatine? You think that saves your life?"

He quietened at Han's misunderstanding, composure returning, and with it, resolve. "I think it saves his. I think it saves yours."

"…and what about yours?" Han asked quietly.

Luke hesitated for long seconds…but with nothing left to say, he shook his head in silence. Glancing down to the stylus still in his hand, he placed it gently onto the table, before turning to leave.

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When he reached to his own quarters, Indo was sat in his room's only chair, waiting. He stood immediately, voice tight. "Where have you been?"

"Out." It took a brief adjustment of his mental state, to be back around Indo. But it was a change to the familiar, to the comforting convention of distance, and despite Luke's curt answer there was no malice in it. It was simply a necessity of dealing with the facts, which were that with a few exceptions, pretty much whatever Indo knew, he would eventually pass on to Palpatine. Knowing that, the precedent was long since established that anything sensitive—anything that Luke knew damn well he would get into trouble for—he simply didn't tell Indo. And Indo, for his part, knew that to press Luke further would only gain him a piece of information that would, in the end, reflect badly on Luke—and therefore on Indo himself.

So now Indo simply stared, disapproval written all over his face, along with that particular strain of long-suffering acceptance that Luke knew so well. "You turned off your comlink."

"Yes." Luke wondered briefly if Indo had tried to check his location via his deactivated comlink, when Luke hadn't returned, though it would have gained him no more than he already knew, which was that Luke wasn't onboard the _Relentless_. To learn more than that, he would have been forced to contact the other destroyers and have them perform their own in-ship scans, and he wouldn't have risked that. Such an order would always be logged, and in all probability passed on to Palpatine, not only highlighting the fact that Indo had no idea where his charge was, but also revealing Luke's location, a fact that Luke had clearly gone to great pains to hide, considering the way he'd chosen to get there. So they both played this familiar game, because if there was one thing that Indo could be relied on to do, it was consider every angle before he made any move.

Walking in to let the door close behind him, Luke's eye was caught by the light in his small bedroom. Laid out on his bed, immaculately pressed and starched, was his full Ubiqtorate dress uniform. His heart pumped a few fast beats as he glanced to Indo, whose expression changed not a whit, though the gravity in his voice told all.

"You're commanded to the Emperor's presence, onboard the _Conqueror_. You're ordered to wear dress uniform, and to go alone."

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To be continued…..

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	29. Chapter 29

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE**

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Luke arrived on the main bridge of the _Conqueror_ in full uniform, increasingly uneasy, barely aware of the wary glances which his Ubiqtorate status drew from the bridge officers on duty. Admitted immediately, he walked into a room empty save for his Master, who stood to its far side staring out across the sprawling hull of the Destroyer. He turned only slowly as Luke, led by the fact that he'd been ordered to wear his uniform, came to a stop and gave a military bow from the neck, clicking his heels together.

Yellow eyes regarded him for long seconds as Luke stood uncomfortably, deeply wary.

"Stand up straight," the Emperor intoned. "When you wear a uniform, you represent my military. You deport yourself with composure and surety."

Though he'd already been standing to tense attention, Luke tried to straighten himself further, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Whatever this was, it was going to be bad. He could feel it gathering at the edges of his awareness now. Could sense it in every movement his Master made, see it in the tone of his voice and the set of his jaw.

"I have come to a decision as to your future," the Emperor said at last, tone brusque, allowing for no dissent.

His future? Luke frowned just slightly. His future was set already—had been for as long as he could remember. He would be an Emperor's Hand. He would travel through the galaxy as the other select few did, doing his Master's bidding. He was waiting only for the release which he knew would soon come…

"On your seventeenth birthday, you will take up your official position as Hand. Your studies will cease, and you will devote yourself to this calling every waking hour, with all due gravity and sincerity."

Exactly as he'd expected…so why did he feel a weight pressing in on him to near-panic?

A brief pause, then his Master continued. "You will not, however, take your leave of the palace—or of me."

Luke's chin lifted a fraction, eyes widening as the Emperor continued, giving him no opportunity to speak.

"You will instead become my bodyguard. My defender. You will do this without absence or respite. Without hesitation or reluctance. You will devote your life to it, every waking hour, as only you can."

It was a body-blow that pushed the air from Luke's lungs. For the longest time he simply stared, seeing his life—any chance at some small sliver of autonomy—evaporate in the course of a few words, spoken with absolute understanding of their damning power yet no allowance made, even now, as Palpatine continued.

"You have told me many times that you would die for me…why did you think I would ask such a thing of you? It is time to grow up and stop holding to foolish, juvenile dreams. You claim that you are not a child any more—prove it now." Palpatine paused, eyes flicking back and forth across Luke's gaze, manner curt and brisk, no attempt at interest feigned. "Say what you have to say."

Given his chance, Luke didn't hesitate. "Why me? Why not Brie or Mara Jade?"

"They have not been trained as you have."

"To be a Hand! To go out into the galaxy and do your bidding, like them—not for this! Trailing around that damn palace behind you when there are others wh…."

The Force-blow hit him squarely in the center of his chest, sending him staggering back several paces, though he held his balance and stayed upright, gasping for breath as his Master ranted.

"I give you the ultimate accolade, and you…you struggle to be free of it!"

"Let me serve, like them!" Until this moment, when he saw it being ripped away, Luke hadn't realized just how much the knowledge that he would eventually be free of all this had meant to him. "Let me be of use, not shuttered up and…"

"Your use is whatever and wherever I deem it to be."

"Let me be of value!"

"You will be. Here, against any and all detractors—against Vader."

"Vader would never turn against you."

"You sensed what I did, in the vision. The dark-cloaked threat. Vader plots against me—now more than ever."

"He doesn't have the strength. He knows it would be his death sentence, because he doesn't have the power to stand against you. He knows that!"

Palpatine smiled as he set forward, gravelly tones shifting from annoyance to dismissive amusement. "Ah, so now that you are finally reaching your potential, you think that power is everything? The very fact that you say such a thing proves how naïve you are." His Master stopped before him, shaking his head in impatient disapproval. "His hold on the Force has weakened, yes, but his resolve only grows… And most of all, he carries no weaknesses, as you do."

"I don't ha—" Luke stopped mid-word as his Master's hand stretched out with the speed of a striking snake— But he only rested one finger beneath Luke's chin, the action stilling his jaw and silencing him.

"No?" Palpatine stepped closer, voice dropping. "Then why do I _still_ look at a blue-eyed boy? Where is my Sith?"

Luke braced for the inevitable string of derision that always came with that accusation…but instead his Master smiled benignly. "You hate this life, I know…but it makes you strong. Feel the power that builds within you to diamond hardness because of it. When the time comes, child, I shall withdraw my protection of Vader…and he shall be yours." His Master held that empty smile for seconds longer, lips trembling just slightly. "I look forward to that day as much as you do—to the spectacle of a duel between Sith, when that glorious power that I have toiled so long to propagate in you, may be turned on him without restraint."

Luke glanced down, uneasy at the realization of what Palpatine was truly offering—knowingly. He pulled the thought in and hid it deep, looking up to meet his Master's eyes, and Palpatine's thin smiled broadened indulgently. "But first, I must see a true Sith's eyes." Again his Master paused portentiously, his own ocher eyes catching the light as he studied Luke's, his hand still to Luke's chin. "Tell me…what do you hold hidden?

Silence stretched taught as Luke stared, heart pounding, composure slipping. "Master?"

Palpatine tilted his head, as if tired of repeating himself. "There is a reason that I look into insipid blue eyes, child, and I have told you what it is. Yet still you hold these petty and undignified amities with lesser beings than ourselves."

Luke glanced down in silence, every possible shield in place as Palpatine nodded slowly.

"You cradle a weakness, knowingly. For some reason that I will never comprehend, you hold it of value. Child, listen to me, and understand; it is not precious, it is costly. These trivial, petty little creatures, they will always, _always_ betray you, in the end."

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Han walked quickly through the corridors of the _Relentless_, heading for the large tech maintenance room beneath Stellar Engineering, because Luke had admitted once that he used the unimportant and little-accessed room when smoking spice, because had no surveillance.

Luke. Han blanched at the pang of guilt, feeling that taking it even this far was a betrayal, of sorts. But as far as Han could see he was out of choices. This was all he had left—presuming that he could make it work.

Inside the big room the huge tertiary heatsink which served the holo array for Stellar Engineering hummed, taking the majority of the space though he was easily able to walk around its bulk, which disappeared down several levels behind a safety rail.

Reaching the far side of the room he fumbled for his comlink—and his eyes paused on his own uniform as he remembered the kid's words to him, about his wearing an Imperial uniform—about taking his pay and toeing the line. Because the kid was right...it was just that he was looking at the thing from the wrong side.

It wasn't enough to object in words alone; to grumble and moan, but still put that uniform on every morning. To keep on saying that things should change, but never be the one who would step out of line and make them.

Lifting his comlink, Han keyed in the code Leia had given him…then paused, before he transmitted, in realization of the fact that he had absolutely no idea what to say, how to start this going. Already half of him was saying he couldn't do this to the kid, even while the other half was talking himself into comming her.

His hand was actually shaking as he pressed transmit. She answered quicker than he'd expected, her voice full of concern.

"Han?"

"Hey." His mouth was suddenly dry. He couldn't do this.

"What's wrong?" It was the concern in her voice, the warmth, the memory of those big brown eyes that made him push on.

"I uh…I needed to talk to you about something."

"Hold on…" He could hear her walking; hear a ship-style door slide open and closed, grinding slightly on old runners. "Okay, I'm alone. Are you alright?"

"Fine, yeah. Good. You?"

"I'm…I'm sorry I couldn't speak before, when you commed on the night that Luke and I... I had a lot on my mind."

"S'okay. I got a lot on mine, right now."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I think…yeah, I think I am. Or…I will be, if you'll help me."

"Help you how?"

"I…I need asylum."

"What?"

"You said…you once said there was no dishonor in acknowledging that I'd made a bad decision when I was young, and I chose to put this uniform on—it only became a mistake if I didn't do something about it, now."

"…I remember that." There was an edge of subdued hope in her voice.

"Well, I'm doin' somethin' about it, and I need asylum. Can you offer it, on behalf of the Rebellion?" He had to do it this way, though he knew damn well that the kid wouldn't see it like that. But he'd said it enough times—that they couldn't keep on doing this any more.

Sometimes…sometimes, you had to sacrifice everything, for even a chance to start again.

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"Tell me, if I asked you to sacrifice…would you?" Barely a half step away from Luke, Palpatine's voice was quiet, but no less dangerous for it.

Standing before the wide run of lozenge-shaped, floor to ceiling viewports in the ominous silence of the conference room onboard the _Conqueror_, his dark-dressed form was framed by the view of the massive Destroyer's hull and the dense blackness of deep space beyond.

Luke blinked, searching to place the remembered words, but…he tensed, and instantly stopped himself as the memory replayed in his head, of kneeling before his Master in the throne room, his hand on the throne's armrest, his own lightsaber grating against the fine bones in the back of his hand, held there by Palpatine; _"If I asked you to sacrifice…would you?"_

"You want to prove yourself, child," his Master asked. "To be truly free?"

Luke took a breath to speak—but something broke it in his throat, something cold and portentous which rose up like a wraith from the shadowed edges of his awareness. Palpatine's eyes remained on him, and knowing that his Master had sensed his twist of doubt Luke rallied to remove it, though when he spoke his voice was quiet and wary. "…Yes."

Palpatine nodded approvingly, a thin smile coming to his bloodless lips as he studied Luke's face for a long time…then he turned and walked to the huge desk whose flawlessly polished surface reflected the ice-cold expanse of space beyond, which seemed now to seep in through every viewport. "I gave you this test when you were eleven, and you failed dismally. Don't disappoint me again."

"Test?"

Reaching out, his Master activated the holo set into the desk's surface. Two images flickered into life and rose up into the air. Standard ID turnarounds, one depicted Indo, the other Han. Instantly Luke backstepped in realization, feeling the memory strike as keenly as any physical blow.

The Emperor brought his cool and pitiless gaze to him. "It is time to clear the boards. To once again wipe out a past that should have no bearing on your future."

Luke backed up another three fast steps, all composure gone, his demeanour reduced to that of a child as he clenched a hand to his chest in realization of what Palpatine was leading to. "Don't…don't make me choose."

Palpatine smiled as he set his head to one side. "Choose? I would have thought that this time, at least the decision was a foregone conclusion. Viscount Indo is clearly no longer of use to you…ah, but then, what real use is Solo? Yes, I see your predicament. A difficult choice indeed."

Voiceless, Luke could only hunch back beneath his Master's mocking indulgence, vivid memories assaulting him, breath coming shallow as his chest tightened.

"But a choice you have to make, none the less," Palpatine grated, unmoved. "You are no longer a child, and you will not carry such flaws. You will not nurse these failings as if they have value. You will not divide your attention nor diminish your motivation."

Luke shook his head, voice reduced to a broken appeal. "I don't—I've never once…"

"You think I am blind?" Palpatine declared, hand slamming to the wide desk. "You think me incapable of seeing the petty little attachments you form? I believed that time would see these failings diminish, but when you finally begin to distance yourself from Viscount Indo, it seems that you do so simply to replace him with another. I thought I had made this very clear to you, but apparently not, so I shall say it again. _I_ am the only constant in your life. I am its center, its foundation. I am the only one you look to. No one else, ever. You know that."

The silence blared as his Master glared, fuming, eyes ablaze…then let out the smallest laugh, pale skin creasing into deep folds as he walked around the wide desk and towards Luke, who backstepped just once as his Master closed. Palpatine didn't slow until he stood near enough to reach out and take Luke's jawline in his cool hand, the motion so unexpected that Luke flinched back…but his Master only smiled, voice gentle, affectionate, almost. "For you, I have done this before—removed those who would weaken you, divide your attention…and for you, I will do it again, without hesitation. If I remove them, you know that it shall be both…and you know that it will not be easy. However…if you wish to save one, then the method is simple enough, you know that. You need simply kill the other."

"I can't…"

"Then do nothing…and I will destroy them both."

"Please—"

"For you, I do this, child," his Master said again, over Luke's inarticulate plea. "To make you strong. Such petty and base connections, they are not the Sith way. Viscount Indo has been too close for too long, you know that. And Solo…his wayward guidance has served a great purpose in instigating within you the strength to bring your powers to the fore. But no matter what he has enabled you to achieve, it is tempered by the weakness he begets, simply in being here. No…he has outlived his value. His final and most significant lesson will be in his removal. Child…" Palpatine let his cold, cupped hand trail gently along Luke's jawline and drop to rest lightly against the throat it had many times tightened about, his thumb resting on the pulse of Luke's neck as it raced. "If you are strong enough to do this yourself, then you will, I promise, step free of all the vulnerabilities and pains of your childhood, all of these cloying and crushing limitations, and you will become a man—a worthy. A Sith."

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"I think…" Han paused, then said it aloud into the comlink. He'd better get used to the idea. "I think it's time to leave…will you help me?"

"To do what?" Leia asked, breathless. "Leave the Empire, or join the Alliance?"

"Both, I guess." Funny, how he basked in the sound of her smile when she next spoke.

"I knew there was more to you than that damn uniform!"

"Sweetheart, you don't know the half of it. Question is, would it be safe there, for an ex-Imperial?"

"You'd be surprised how many we get. One of our best Generals is an ex-Imperial tactician."

"Madine." Han knew of him by reputation; the highest-ranking Imperial ever to defect. "So I wouldn't, y'know, get court-martialled or anything?"

"Not when you come to us voluntarily, of course not. Why would you be?"

"And what if I didn't?"

"I don't understand…"

"You know when you said that there was more to me than this uniform? Well you were right, there is. There's a whole other uniform—and that one's Ubiqtorate."

"You're not Ubiqtorate."

"No, but Luke is, and I'm bringing him with me." Had she thought for one moment that he'd leave the kid behind? Luke had cited often enough to Han that running was pointless, because Palpatine would find him—well let him try to find the kid there! He'd thrown the whole damn Imperial military machine at the Rebel Alliance for nearly two decades, and it was still around. "It's not enough to get him away from Palpatine, I need to get him outside of the  
Old Man's reach—and there's just one place in the universe that I think I can do that. And there's just one woman I know who can help me."

Leia was silent for a worryingly long time. When she finally spoke, the confusion was clear in her voice—and he could swear it was mixed with a huge great hunk of hope. "Luke actually wants to defect?"

"Aaaah…no. That's the problem bit."

"I don't understand."

"If I bring him…it won't be by his choice. I may…you know, need a little help keepin' him there, at first." Forget about weaning him off spice, this would be an attempt to wean him off of Palpatine's influence—and that was the real addiction, the real dependence. The Old Man had seen to that. The spice was just a way to deal with it.

Why hadn't he seen all this before—why hadn't he connected all the dots and seen this way out? How many times had he said that he couldn't sit by and watch Luke slowly spiral down any more, but done nothing, because he'd had no idea what to do. How many times had he watched the kid struggle so hard, and drag himself so damn far…then get knocked back down, because the Old Man had such a hold on him. This was the answer, this was the way out—but it had taken Han's slow recognition that he couldn't serve the Empire any more, to realize the one place where he and the kid could safely go. He had no idea if Luke would ever forgive him…but he'd risk that. He'd take that hit, and just hope to hell he could change it, given time.

Yeah, time was what he'd need…and he wasn't entirely sure he could get that without a Jedi and a whole damn Rebel army to gain it.

Leia, it turned out, didn't seem that sure even with them. "You're asking me to bring a Sith into the Alliance—against his wishes. Do you know what he's capable of?"

"He's not like them. You gotta understand, what you're seein' is what Palpatine's trained the kid to do all his life."

"I do understand—that's what I'm afraid of."

"But he's growing up and he's getting a mind of his own and he's askin' questions—and the Old Man doesn't like that, believe me. It's going against everything Luke's been taught, everything he's ever known, and he's tearing himself apart in the process, but he's…he's still trying. And I know you think he's Sith, and I understand why, I really do, but…I don't even know what to tell you. All I can say is, he's not. He's not like them—trust me on that one."

The line remained silent for long seconds, and when Leia's voice came, it was soft and uncertain. "I want to, Han, I really do."

"Then do it! I _know_ him, I know exactly what's goin' on in his head. And yeah, the kid's belligerent and he's confrontational and every damn time he even thinks he's starting to actually trust someone he does somethin' stupid to sabotage it without even realizing it, which enables him to back off—I know that! Because that's a massive leap of faith, with not a damn thing in his whole life so far to back it up…but hell, I remember when I'd've done the same. That's why I understand him; because someone once gave me that same opportunity—that same faith. Someone stuck it out and went the distance for me, and she turned my life around completely. And now it's my turn." He paused, still surprised how easy it was, if you took that leap in the dark and let yourself care. "He just…he just needs somebody in his life to finally hang on in there and not give up on him."

Leia remained silent, and Han was aware of speaking too quickly in his effort to get everything over in the kid's defense. "We've had so much in common in our lives, he's like a little brother…I mean, an incredibly frustrating, unpredictable, explosive little brother, I admit that, but from what I hear, that's what they're all like anyway, and…his heart's in the right place, I know it is. He wouldn't have hurt Kenobi, even if Vader hadn't turned up. He might have been pretty full-on hacked-off at him, but he would have backed off, like he did with you. He sure as hell wouldn't have known that Vader was followin' him that night—you know that, right?"

"I think…I think I do." She sounded distant, surprised at her own admission.

"Vader and Luke've been at each other's throats for years, he'd never tell Vader anything, let alone about you."

The silence held for long seconds, then he heard her light sigh. "He hasn't…told you anything about…"

"About what?"

"Luke…he told me something very important that night we fought, and I just didn't know how to handle it in that moment, so I ran. I've been trying to get in contact with him ever since, on the comm code he gave me, but it seems inactive."

"He might have left it on Coruscant. I'll pass it on—in fact, help me, and speak to him face to face."

"Han, I want to help you. I absolutely want to help Luke, but…he makes it very hard."

"Sometimes, what Luke says and what he's really thinking are at odds. You gotta know him well enough to spot it, but let me tell you, he does it all the time, even to himself." Luke was the very thing that he'd once accused Han of—that was probably why he'd thought to make the accusation in the first place, and with such frustration. He was the man who put that uniform on, and lived under the roof and answered the commands of the Emperor…but somewhere in there, at his very core, he knew it was wrong. He _knew_ it—because occasionally, under pressure, a little of that leaked out into his actions.

It was so obvious! Kid tried so hard to toe the party line, but deep inside, at the very core of him, he didn't want to. He did so because of Palpatine—only that. That was why sometimes his words and actions were so at odds. Because the kid himself was.

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In the still silence Palpatine watched the boy falter at his demand. Sensed the panic which radiated from him, unchecked, at his memory of past trials. He wanted to answer his Master's command, wanted to obey as he always did, the controls planted in that seven-year-old boy now deeply embedded. But something held back, something at the very core of him.

The boy had failed this test last time—but then Palpatine had given it knowing that he would, manipulating its outcome to gain him the unbreakable hold which he still maintained on the boy, today. The exclusive secret which bound them together. Death could be a powerful thing to a young child—death of someone as close as one's parents even more so…deaths blamed on the child himself the ultimate hold. It had affected the eleven-year-old child that Antilles had been at the time deeply, had taken what was left after four years of Palpatine's absolute domination, and broken him apart entirely…but then, that had always been the intention. The overload of emotion which would numb all else, the guilt which would bind the boy to him.

He could easily work to persuade the boy to act on his present command, he knew; could slowly twist the knife even as he tightened the leash. Antilles would listen, as he'd always been taught to. Palpatine's hold on him was just as absolute as it had been on Darth Maul; as it presently was on Mara Jade and Shira Brie—acolytes gained in childhood were always the most loyal and tractable. But this was not about persuasion, it was about compliance. Capitulation. Willing consent. So he remained silent, watching fleeting emotions cross the boy's face as he moved from bewilderment to near-panic.

It seemed, to Palpatine, such a small thing that he asked; the death of two Aides whom the boy should have no attachment to in the first place. Far less than his demand just weeks ago, when he had pressed a lightsaber against the back of Antilles' hand. The boy had tensed then, willing to take that trial…but Palpatine had invested years in training him to think little of his own safety. And he knew that sometimes, with the boy, what seemed the lesser test so clearly held the greater cost.

And now was the time to test; to push his advocate on, to take him to the next level.

Antilles took a half-staggered step back, eyes dropping as he backed down, guilt-ridden, because he knew already that he couldn't make the decision. Palpatine let him babble, having known that he would. Let him apologize again and again, without pushing him further—not yet.

Instead he accepted the apologies with patronizing disdain, underlining the boy's belief that he was at fault for being unable to act. Let him think on that, for a few sleepless nights; think on his own failings, on his weakness and limitations. On the futility of them—because one way or another, Antilles would make a decision and he _would_ act upon it—even if Palpatine had to hold the boy's hand to the lightsaber as he made the killing blow.

But for now he played the gracious mentor and shook his head, stepping in close again because he knew how uneasy it made his charge, as he lifted his hand to push the boy's unruly hair gently back from his eyes, his tone dripping empty indulgence.

"Don't apologize, child—not to me. It is yourself whom you are failing, yet again. It means nothing to me, to complete this task if you are unable. Nothing, to turn what could have been a mercifully quick demise into a tortuous slaughter. That is what makes me stronger than you. This would always happen one day, you most surely knew that? It will happen every time I see that you allow another beneath those flawed shields. I have always told you, there can be only one focus in the life of an Emperor's Hand. Only one allegiance." He paused to smile munificently. "But I will grant you time to find your resolve. You have until our return to Coruscant, then I will bring Solo and the Viscount together…and you will make a choice, and act upon it. Use this time wisely, child; sever connections. They only ever weaken you. Show me your strength, show me your resolve. Show me your true worth."

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"He just needs some time." Huddled to the back of the room, with the heatsink humming over the pointed silence from the comlink in his hand, Han argued the kid's corner. "Time away from Palpatine. The old man's been his life, he's made sure of that. He won't let anyone else even close. That's why the kid won't let anyone in—it's like he's afraid to, for some reason."

"I know he…" Leia hesitated, her voice barely audible on Han's comlink, over the heatsink's thrum, "he didn't want to duel me."

"He went there intending to let you take a pop at him, nothing more. He just didn't count on your doin' it with a lightsaber in your hand. C'mon, you know how many times he's tried to protect you. It didn't work with Kenobi, but he still got you out. You think that wasn't at risk to himself? You should see what Palpatine does, when he thinks the kid's showing even a glimmer of autonomy—you should see what he does to him. But Luke still protected you over the Death Star. Palpatine put him in the medicenter for that—without even knowing about you, just because the kid had been there…and Luke knew he'd face a hell of a lot worse, if helped you—believe me, he knew. But he _still_ did it."

"I'll help him."

"Plus…what?"

"I said, I'll help him."

Han blinked, speechless for a second. He was barely halfway through his spiel to persuade her! "You don't want to know why? I got it all worked out…"

She laughed, and it came out as a breathy sigh over the comlink. "Then you're doing better than me, Han Solo. I'm going on gut instinct here. I'm closing my eyes and making a leap in the dark."

Han too, laughed. "Welcome to my life, sweetheart!"

And how the hell did the kid make people do that, with not a damn thing to back it up? Or was it just him and Leia? Han grinned wider, 'cos if it was, didn't that make it better still? "Clearly we're on the same wavelength, here."

"Unfortunately it won't be our choice that counts."

"What d'you mean?"

"I can't make that kind of decision independently. I can't just bring a Sith onboard a Rebel ship. I want to help him…but I can't endanger the Alliance to do so—and believe me, that's what everyone will see."

"What about your leader…Mothma?"

"Mon?"

"Can't you speak to her, tell her what he's worth?"

She hesitated. "Worth?"

"You said you want someone who understands Palpatine, who knows your enemy inside out? That's Luke—that's the kid. I can tell you for a fact that he knows exactly how Palpatine thinks, because I've heard him call the points so often—what Palpatine's real motives are, what he's setting in place, what he's hiding behind more obvious moves. Luke's grown up in close contact with Palpatine, like no one else, ever. He knows him inside out—how he reasons, how he reacts… and the military—he's exactly the same there. It's what he's been brought up with. He knows procedures, codes, high level stuff. Knows how all the big players think. You want to talk Luke up in front of your boss, tell her that."

"That's all dependent on Luke's helping them—voluntarily."

"We'll sort that out when the time comes," Han said uneasily, aware that he was skimming over a mammoth hurdle there…in fact, this whole crazy scheme was one big, planet-sized hurdle, from beginning to end. But hey, one ridiculously unlikely problem at a time. "For now, I got a chance to get Luke out in the next few days. Now's the time to do it, because we're not on Coruscant, we're part of an armada, and we're about to make an unscheduled stop. After that, we're either at high-security installations or in lightspeed again until we get back to Coruscant, then depending on the kid's assignments we might not be travellin' on our own away from Coruscant for months afterwards. But we're makin' an unscheduled stop at some drydock near Corsin in the early hours of the morning, I think. That means that security'll be less organized, and we're only half the time with Palpatine anyway. That's my best chance, so I need to get a deal in place by—"

"Where did you say the drydock was?"

"Uh…near Corsin. Drydock IV. It's the supply dock for the Rim systems turnwise of Coruscant and—"

"I know where it is. Han, you can't be there—not unless you arrive and leave within the next day."

It was the gravity of her voice which stopped him cold.

"Why?"

"I can't tell you, you just…" She paused… "Wait, did you say Palpatine was part of the armada?"

"Palpatine _is_ the armada."

"Palpatine is with you, right now, heading to the Imperial Drydock at Corsin?"

"Yeah. We're goin' to lightpeed within the hour. That'll be our last jump to get there, I think." He waited, but the line remained silent for a long time. "Leia….Leia?"

"Oh, Han…" Her voice was low, loaded with emotion. "Do you have any idea of the opportunity you've just given us? Do you know what this is worth?"

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True worth…that was what his Master had said; show his true worth, Luke reflected in bitter silence, as the shuttle slipped through space towards the _Relentless_. But they both knew what that really was; nothing, save for Luke's ability to obey a command without question. And he couldn't even do that, he knew. Not really. So what was he worth?

He sat still and withdrawn, wishing for the old numbness to return as real life closed in about him again—his life. He'd spent years cultivating the art of feeling nothing, of being safely removed from all of the complications that this particular life pressed in on him. But in the last few months all of that had been lost, as the walls that had kept him safe had begun to crumble. He'd taken outrageous risks—saved prisoners, helped Kenobi, let Leia go free, protected her…lied to Palpatine to do it—actually lied, to his Master's face!

…And yet he couldn't bring himself to regret them. Their results, and the fact that he'd deceived his Master, yes, completely…but the acts…no.

All because Solo had allowed him to hope, to _need_ something other than the dour, dismal life he was destined to lead. Because Solo had let him think that there could somehow be something more for him. And briefly, stupidly, he'd actually begun to believe him…to trust him. For one single, star-bright moment, he'd hoped…

But already that star was crumbling and collapsing under the weight of its own impossibility, and once again he was that child in his dreams, just steps from the bright light but with the cloying shadows forever closing in about him, and that monster…that monster in the darkness reaching out to claim him and drag him back. And it was just too hard to hope any more. He'd been pulled back into those shadows too often to be prepared to try again. He couldn't take that chance, couldn't survive that fall one more time.

It was just too dangerous to try, when he could see all that he'd craved slipping away. And worse…worse, was what was at stake. Han needed to go, and it had to be now, because if he didn't…if he didn't Luke genuinely feared that somehow he'd eventually capitulate, no matter how reluctantly, and do as his Master commanded. How could he not?

No, better to have such risks safely gone. Better to fall back into his life as it had always been, a numb, spice-wrapped solitude with no risks, no pain, no loss…no hope. Better to let it all slide away than to keep on struggling to hold on to some broken travesty of what he could never have—what he was never meant to have.

Better to feel nothing, than to feel this.

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"This changes everything." Leia's voice was charged with subdued excitement and raw hope. "This could change absolutely everything, Han. This is…this is the opportunity we never thought we'd have."

"Wait, all I'm tryin' to do here is get the kid safely away. That's hard enough without—"

"Palpatine is part of the armada en-route to the Corsin drydock, right now?" She'd dropped to the kind of focused concentration that demanded an answer.

"I told you, Palpatine _is_ the armada. He's making the tour of some of his high-security installations—to crack the whip, I think. But first we're makin' an unscheduled stop at Corsin Drydock, so the Old Man can speak to some Moff."

"How long is he staying?"

Han hesitated; this was all so unnatural to him, to impart this kind of information; stuff that he knew damn well was classified. Part of him trusted her like he trusted the kid, but he knew she was part of the Rebellion, too. But wasn't he, now? And it wasn't even because of this conversation—not really. He'd been slowly committing to this for a long time…it had just never had a name before—a focus. "I don't know," he said slowly at last. "I could try to find out."

"How many Destroyers are in your convoy?"

"Five, altogether."

"Plus four at the drydock."

"…How d'you know that?"

"Han…if we needed your help to pin down which Destroyer Palpatine is on at a certain moment at the Corsin Drydock, would you do it?"

"Seriously? You think you're just gonna show up there and take some random potshot at him? You think it's that easy?"

"No. Han, I can't tell you anything more, but would you help us?"

"Okay, you just said yourself there'll be nine Star Destroyers there—nine! You know how many fighter compliments a single Star Destroyer has? You know how many guns it has?"

"Han, you told me a long time ago—when I asked you whether Luke would ever help the Alliance—you said it was complicated. I told you then that we simply needed to remove the complication. Well, that's Palpatine. He's the complication. You say you want to get Luke away from all this, but you know yourself that even if you do, he'll always go back to Palpatine. The only way you'll stop that is to help us get rid of him. Permanently."

Han remained silent, wondering if Leia had any idea what she was asking of him. He'd come into this conversation thinking _he'd_ have to persuade _her_, and now she was doing the same to him, as she pressed on urgently.

"You're in an unprecedented position. You've ended up incredibly close to the Emperor almost by default. He controls everyone around him, and everyone there is hand picked for their loyalty—everyone. But because of Luke, you've slipped in beneath that net. You have the opportunity so very few do—to make a difference. A huge difference—a real one—at the source of the problem. Help us."

And what had he thought himself, earlier, about it not being enough to grumble and moan, yet do nothing to change things? He'd commed Leia with that myopic little view of Luke and himself in mind, looking for her help to keep the kid safe. And she was right, that wasn't enough. Right again, in that if he could, the kid would always go back to Palpatine. But that didn't mean to say that Han could do a damn thing about it. He bit his lip; this was insanity! "Just because you have the Old Man out of Coruscant, that doesn't mean he'll be undefended."

"You said yourself this is an unscheduled stop."

"Surrounded by nine Star Destroyers!"

"All I need you to do is take a comlink and leave it open on a set channel at a set time, on the Emperor's destroyer, so that we can pinpoint it. Then you need to get off the Destroyer—you need to do that no matter what, understand?"

"And then?"

"We'll pick you up. Either way, we'll pick you both up, I promise. I'll come myself, if I have to. Will you help us?"

Han hesitated… "You get that deal for Luke, and I'll do it. Whatever the hell you think you've got a shot at, you need the right destroyer in the first place, and I can give you that—but on my terms. I want Luke's guaranteed safety, and his immunity from any prosecution. Tell Mothma that."

"Stay right where you are," she said, fire in her voice. "Don't go anywhere."

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Sitting alone in the tech room waiting for her to get back to him, Han wondered what the hell she had in mind. Wondered what had been going through his own, when he'd agreed to plant the comlink.

More than anything else, sitting in a dark corner of the noisy and cluttered room, he wondered how the hell he was gonna persuade a wary, unwilling Luke Antilles to leave with him, when he'd planted that comlink…and what he was gonna do if—_when_—he wouldn't.

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To be continued…..

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	30. Chapter 30

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**CHAPTER 30**

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Leia practically ran down the corridors of _Home One_, the Rebel flagship. Still a relatively new ship—particularly by Rebel Alliance standards—she boasted endless stretches of clean, white corridors which provided circuitous routes around her massive, bulbous form. Taking another corner at speed, Leia stopped in the outer office of Mon Mothma, dashing past the silver protocol droid, which barely had time to stand and let out a quick "Wait!", before Leia had hit the door release and tumbled inside.

Mon glanced up from her desk, surprised but far too worldly to show it. "Leia?"

"Operation Ram's Head," Leia huffed, still struggling to get her breath back, "how fixed is it? Could we bring it forward by two days?"

On its final 50-hour countdown to trigger, Operation Ram's Head had been in preparation for nearly a month now, conceived after the Leafar's defection to the Alliance had brought early intel of the Empire's new Shield X system. Having stolen the _Blade 5_, an Imperial C-90 Corvette fitted with the quantum-capacity shields, the Alliance had been planning to pack the Corvette with timed explosives and ram it into the tactically-important Imperial Drydock IV, the main supplier to the Imperial Navy's Rim Systems Fleet—including the Destroyers which presently suppressed the Leafar's home planet.

Set, as so many Alliance raids were, around maximum impact with minimal risk of resources, it had been a small operation in the greater scale of things, its main aim to visibly bloody the Empire's nose in the Rim Systems where dissent was always greatest, and to make supplying the Rim Systems Fleet awkward for half a year at most, whilst the drydock was repaired or replaced. All that was about to change, Leia knew.

Probably sensing her excitement, Mon stood, nervous. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's…" Leia paused to gain her breath. This wasn't really the kind of image that the Alliance's last Jedi Knight was supposed to be putting forward, rushing full-tilt into rooms and then gasping for breath. "I think…Mon, I think Palpatine will be there for the next twenty-four hours or so."

Mon's chin rose as her eyes widened. "How do you know? Is this from Cracken?"

Leia shook her head of the Alliance Intel General. "I have another source. He's…" She hesitated. "he's an Imperial, looking to defect."

Mon's face hardened a little. "How reliable? What information has he provided us before?"

"None," Leia admitted. "But I know him personally, and I can vouch for him. Plus he wasn't giving me the information specifically, he just quoted it in passing, because he's travelling in the convoy to the Corsin Drydock right now."

Mon was already leaning forward to press the comlink set into her desk. "Find General Cracken and get him here—now, please." She looked back to Leia. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing, and I didn't tell him anything about Operation Ram's Head. He did say that the armada that Palpatine's travelling in consists of five destroyers. He offered to try to get more details, if we need them."

"When will Palpatine arrive?"

"In hours, I think. And we have no set departure time. Mon," Leia hesitated, "Han says he'll help us further—pinpoint which Destroyer the Emperor's on so that we can concentrate our attack…but it's conditional."

Mon straightened slightly, her sense taking on a wary cast. "Conditional on what?"

"He…the Imperial who wants to defect is Han Solo. And he wants to bring Luke Antilles with him."

"A Sith wants to defect?"

"…No. It'll be against Luke's wishes. He'll be brought here under duress."

Mon arched her eyebrows. "And just how does Solo intend to manage that?"

"I don't know…but I intend to help him, in any way I can."

Mon's alarm flashed out, followed closely by a wave of apprehension. "Leia," Mon hesitated, searching for the right thing to say. "Luke Antilles is a Sith, probably involved in Obi-Wan's death. You can't allow yourself…"

"No, I don't believe that. I told you, I spoke to him afterwards." What Leia had omitted to mention in her retelling of those fateful events, was that when she had confronted Luke afterwards, it had been during a duel. Why, she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was part out of shame at having instigated it, but for some reason, she'd also felt that she hadn't wanted to admit to anyone that Luke had lit his own saber in retaliation. She'd told no one what he had admitted to her in those last seconds together. It still fired such widely divergent emotions, its implications beating at her most basic concept of who and what she was. Sometimes it genuinely warmed her…and occasionally, the mere thought burned. "Mon, I know this will be difficult—I know that."

"Difficult?" Mon's voice indicated just how inadequate she considered that word.

"But I know—" Leia shook her head, trying to put the nebulous feeling into words. "I _know_ I can trust him. I feel it in every fiber of my body."

"Do you trust him with the fate of the Alliance?" Mon asked somberly. "Because that's what you'll be doing, if you bring him here." She hesitated, and Leia provided the answer to the question she hadn't voiced.

"I can sense the Force's hand in this, Mon, I'm sure of it. I believe I can trust him…that I should help him."

It was Luke who had broken off from the duel on Coruscant, when he could so easily have finished it, Leia knew. Perhaps because, like her, he had felt some pull within; some sense that it was intrinsically wrong. She knew from the brief moments when Luke had loosed his full potential, that he had been holding back for most of the duel.

Mon stared at her, features pinched in worry, and Leia couldn't think of single logical argument why the Alliance should help a Sith…but she knew with equal certainty that she should. Or perhaps it wasn't about that at all. Perhaps this was a decision on a far smaller and more intimate scale.

"Mon…" It came out in a rush, fired with exhilaration that was equal parts nerves and relief. "He's Vader's son—he said he was Vader's son, and he wasn't lying. I _know_ that." For a second, caught up in her own shock at speaking it aloud, Leia didn't realize just how much of Mon's reaction was resignation, as opposed to shock. As it slowly caught up with her, Leia stared quizzically. "Mon?"

"I think," Mon glanced down, solemn and rueful, "I think I'm beginning to believe that my own hand is being guided in this, too. Perhaps events have conspired to make me realize that this is the moment for truth."

"You knew." It wasn't a question.

"Leia…" Mon glanced away, momentarily doubtful, but then steeled herself as she looked back with such temperate determination. "We didn't tell you this for so long, because Luke Antilles is a Sith, raised by Sith. Because of that, Obi-Wan feared that he'd come after you one day, and he didn't want you to face your most dangerous adversary with such a terrible, restrictive burden."

Leia sat heavily on the chair to her side, and Mon moved quickly around her cluttered desk. "Leia, you have to understand, we didn't think that you would ever connect in this way."

"But he was my brother!"

"We lost him, Leia. We never abandoned him. He was placed with the Royal family on Alderaan as a newborn, as you were taken to Tatooine. When they were killed…"

Leia nodded, remembering. The Empire had manipulated and plain falsified what little facts they deigned to release, in order to point the blame squarely at the Alliance, muddying its name and setting it back years in its negotiations with possible supporters. One of the issues at the time had been that the whole family, including their seven-year-old son, had been killed in the explosion.

"You though he'd been murdered, too."

Mon nodded sadly. "It was years before we realized the truth, and by then, Palpatine had already had a grave influence on…on your brother. Obi-Wan still tried to retrieve Luke…but we couldn't. We simply couldn't. And with Master Yoda's loss, only Obi-Wan was left to protect and train you, so he couldn't take the risk of trying again. You understand that? If you'd been left partially trained, with no Jedi to guide you and three Sith potentially seeking you out…there would have been no hiding place for you, Leia. Nobody could have protected you. Your kind—millennia of history and tradition and teachings—it would all have been lost, forever. We have stolen records here, we have accounts and holocrons…but how could we have found anyone capable of using them, let alone trained them to do so? I'm so sorry, but we had no choice but to relinquish him."

The weight of responsibility which had so clearly pressed down on Mon for years was in her every word, and Leia was dismayed at the logic of it all. The reasonable, rational practicality. Mon reached forward to rest one hand gently on Leia's shoulder. "Leia…look at what was happening. Now, with your training near complete, Obi-Wan had grasped at the opportunity to re-establish some kind of contact. He…" Mon hesitated, and a new resolve came to her voice. "He had already begun to try to reach out to Luke again…and I'm sure he would have wanted us to continue to do the same."

Leia lifted her head, and Mon nodded with renewed determination. "I'll speak to the Council. It will be a very…interesting meeting. But I'll get Solo his permissions, and we'll make preparations to take a S—to take Luke Antilles onboard."

"And the release from prosecution?"

Mon pursed her lips. "Luke is only sixteen, which means that in the eyes of the law, he's still a minor. Given his background, extenuating circumstances could be cited." Her voice hardened. "But I can't protect him if he initiates any further hostile action whilst here. People will be jumpy enough. He has to be controlled."

Leia nodded. "I understand that."

"And Leia…you can't tell anyone about yourself and Luke, you understand that? We can't risk your reputation."

She felt a brief flare of indignation, that she should have to keep silent. Saying it aloud just once had felt incredibly empowering, as if only now had she claimed him as her…as her brother. She certainly wasn't ashamed of their connection, and any problem that others had in accepting it was their own, not hers…

Mon's voice softened as she continued, innately compassionate, but always seeing the greater picture. "Leia, you're the last of the Jedi, a figurehead for the Rebel Alliance, as well as the legacy of your kind. That brings huge responsibilities with it. You've always acknowledged and respected that. People needed to have confidence that you are unimpeachable—" Mon tilted her head, her tone taking on a wry twist. "Probably more so than ever, once they realize that we have a Sith right here among us. I'm sorry…now is not the time."

Biting her lip, Leia nodded, and Mon smiled just briefly…then did the same.

She'd wanted to ask more, but sensed General Cracken's approach before the protocol droid sounded the comlink to inform Mon of his arrival. Instead, Leia stood as Mon ordered him in immediately.

He glanced between both women as he entered, and immediately his posture changed to one bracing for news. Five steps away, Leia pulled herself straighter. Cracken was a longstanding advocate of the Alliance and she had no doubts as to his sincerity, but he was also a hardened fighter with a pin-sharp mind, and he spoke what was in it without hesitation. She had a lot of respect for him, so having him involved both fired her nerves and reassured her, in equal measure.

"Ma'am?"

"General, we have two issues, both time-sensitive, and both classified. Firstly, we need to bring Operation Ram's Head forward. New intelligence indicates that it needs to commence in no more than twelve hours' time."

"It's been arranged for weeks to this schedule, Ma'am. We simply don't have the capacity to—"

"According to your latest reports, where is the Emperor, at present?"

"Our Intel puts him…" Cracken was astute enough to put the pieces together in the time it took him to speak. He remained silent, though, leaving Mon to nod gravely.

"We've received information from an Imperial Naval lieutenant intending to defect, that the Emperor himself will be at the Corsin Drydock in approximately nine hours' time. We have no idea how long he will stay, other than that it will be short."

"Intel has him en-route to Atravis."

"This is an unscheduled stop, and we believe the information to be reliable. The Emperor's convoy contains five star destroyers, making a total of nine at the drydock."

Cracken looked down, eyes skipping the floor as he processed the facts. "So we'll come out of hyperspace not knowing his location among them? We've pulled every single system from the _Ram_ to conserve power, including life support and Bridge controls. We need to program its course in advance."

And there was the problem; the reason that the Shield X system remained tagged by the Empire as 'in development,' used only in a modified form on the very latest TIE fighters; it was power-hungry. Incredibly, restrictively so. Those extraordinary shields were able to deflect any amount of incoming fire…_if_ you could provide them with sufficient power.

In order to survive an inward journey that would doubtless see it come under heavy, sustained fire from several Star Destroyers at once, as well as the initial impact, _Blade 5_—now renamed the _Ram_—would need to pipe literally every iota of onboard power that wasn't going to propulsion, into the quantum shield system. Nothing else could be powered up, even life support, meaning that the _Ram_ would be flown on a pre-set course, with remote contact only. A secondary power grid capable of feeding a heavy freighter on its own, had been connected up in the main hold, to try to help feed those hungry shields. But given sufficient power, those formidable shields gave the _Ram_ the potential to plough through any other ship or station's own defensive shields as if they were simply not there, taking it inside any possible defense.

Operation Ram's intention had been to slice the CR90 corvette's transponder so that it would be logged as a friendly, then pack every forward chamber in the ship with high-density explosives on a trigger system. Set on a collision course with Corsin Drydock, when the _Ram_'s shields took it inside the Drydock's own, they would disengage and the explosives would detonate. Carefully calculated, they'd been intended to cause massive damage, possibly destroying the drydock beyond repair. The question now, was…could they bring a Star Destroyer, built and probably primed for combat, down instead?

Cracken was obviously thinking the same, as he pursed his lips. "If you want a guaranteed hit, Ma'am, we need a direct target—a bridge hit. That would require more information on the site, at the time of the raid—relative positions of all Destroyers, the specific Destroyer and its precise bearings…we'd need a full 3-D map. We can't fine-tune any other way."

"Our contact will provide us with a precise signal to home in on, in order to single out the Destroyer which the Emperor is onboard. Once it launches, the _Ram_ will remain under its own guidance system to avoid jamming, as before, but if you need to fine-tune its trajectory according to the position of other Destroyers, we'll need to have a ship in the system with the _Ram, _to reprogram. Can we still go ahead with the raid, under those conditions?"

Cracken took his time to answer, running every possible scenario through his head. "I think we can action that. The clearances we've sliced for the _Ram_ are for it to dock with Corsin Drydock in two day's time, but it wouldn't be unreasonable for it to arrive a little early. If Palpatine is in the armada at Corsin, no standard shipping would be given close access until it's gone, anyway. Whether it was early or on schedule. We'll rely on the sliced clearances to get it in as close as it can, and then hope that the shield system will hold against multiple points of fire, because they _will_ open up on it, once they realize it's not stopping."

Mon nodded, the barest thread of nerves in her voice. "You've worked closely with the techs on this—it's been your operation from the beginning. Do you think it will hold?"

"We weren't bargaining on nine Star Destroyers," Cracken hesitated, "but I think we've got a real chance—certainly enough to go ahead."

"This will be a fluid situation."

The General nodded grimly. "We're the Rebel Alliance, Ma'am. Fluid situations are what we excel at."

Mon let out a low breath…then glanced briefly to Leia. "This information is coming via one of Jedi Skywalker's contacts, General, and in return for this exceptionally valuable information, he's asking for our help. He'll bring a second person with him when he defects—another Imperial—but this one will be brought against his will. We need to make ready to receive him…but I must stress at this point that he will be, for the time being, an unwilling guest, not a prisoner here." Mon glanced to Leia, her next words as much to her, as to Cracken. "However, we need to make absolutely sure that he has no free movement around the ship, or opportunity to gain it."

Leia nodded once in assent, as Cracken spoke out. "We could allocate him rooms on one of the less inhabited upper levels, ma'am, and I could assign guards."

"I don't think that will be sufficient, General. Our…guest, will be Luke Antilles."

Cracken glanced between Leia and Mon. "The Sith?"

Mon steeled slightly. "Antilles presently serves on the Emperor's staff, yes."

"As a Sith," Cracken underlined.

"We have reason to believe that Antilles serves the Emperor under some level of duress, General."

Mon glanced at Leia as she spoke, and Leia had never been more grateful for Mon's innate authority, even when she knew that Mon was unsure. But Cracken was no pushover.

"With all due respect, Chief Mothma, I've seen the intel. If Antilles serves under duress, then he does a very convincing job of it. And if he does, then why would his coming here be against his will?"

Mon didn't flinch. "I cannot presently provide you with all the facts, nor can I assure you that there is no risk involved; it's patently obvious that there is. What I can tell you is that Master Kenobi had already moved to contact Antilles himself, and had spoken face to face with him."

"On Coruscant?" Cracken asked, his words loaded with meaning.

"We're confident that Antilles wasn't involved in the death of Master Kenobi," Mon countered, holding Cracken's eye. "In fact, he moved to prevent it, at great personal risk—something he's also done for Jedi Skywalker on several occasions. We have known for some time that Antilles' loyalties are…ambiguous, but whilst we hope to disentangle him from the Empire, it will not be an easy task, at first. These are facts that we haven't made public because it would put Antilles himself in danger."

"Ma'am, I'm not looking to cause trouble…in fact, I'm trying hard to avert it."

"I realize that, General." Mon's voice lowered just slightly in response to the same from Cracken. "And I appreciate all that you're saying. It needs to be said. However, I think that this is an opportunity that we should not turn away from, despite the risks…and we have little time to lose."

Cracken pursed his lips, but professional soldier that he was, he nodded just once. "Very well, Ma'am, we'll put something together."

"Thank you. I'll call for Council and military meetings to formalize all of this, and you need to isolate the team connected to Operation Ram's Head, in preparation." Mon pushed on, moving everything forward in brisk, unarguable tones as she looked to Leia. "Jedi Skywalker, please comm your contact, and tell him I'll guarantee his conditions. We move tomorrow."

.

.

.

.

Leia paused in the ante-room to lift her comlink to her lips, aware that she had just minutes before the Council meeting. "Han? Are you there?"

There was a distant scuffle, and a fumble which sounded like he'd just dropped the comlink in surprise. "Yeah! What, did you forget about me?"

"It's on, Han. It's all on. Early tomorrow morning, Coruscant time. You need to have placed the comlink by then—can you do that?"

Han hesitated. "Have you got me the deal?" After a brief silence, he added, "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just…" he trailed off, and Leia finished the sentence for him.

"Everyone else in the Alliance, huh?"

"Hey, I'm working on it. In my defense, I'll bet there aren't a whole hell of a lot of Imperials that you'd trust either."

His words, spoken lightly, fired a fresh surge of knowledge in Leia that there was just one: Han. She wanted—she so very _wanted_ to think, two. To think that her brother was the second. But she didn't…yet. She was about to bring a Sith into the very heart of the Alliance.

"I have the deal, guaranteed by Mon Mothma—I won't let them change it now. Your call frequency is gamma three-three-nine-four-six. You need to set a comlink to transmit a constant pulse along that frequency, and drop it onboard whichever destroyer Palpatine is aboard. We'll do everything else."

"Right, okay, I've set it into this comlink."

"Once you've placed it, you need to get off the star destroyer, understand? You _have to_ get yourself and Luke out of there—that's not a variable. You _cannot_ be there." Leia hesitated. "How…how will you get Luke out?"

There was a long pause—worryingly long. "I dunno. I thought I'd have more time than this."

"Could you get hold of a shuttle?"

"Yeah, but I'm pretty damn sure that even if I got Luke into the hold, I couldn't stop him gettin' into the cockpit, even with the hatch locked down."

"What will you do?"

"I'm workin' on it."

"You need to avoid seeing him tonight, so he doesn't realize what you're planning—and the Emperor. You already…you already know so much." She hesitated, aware of her nerves—for him. "Can you…did Luke teach you how to misdirect?"

"Yeah, so I could speak with you." There was more than a hint of irony in his tone. "I know I can't hide emotions, but I can blame them on other things."

Leia nodded, though he couldn't see. "And don't lie—an outright lie will be detectable."

"I'm fine. I've lived in a palace with three of 'em for the best part of a year, now."

"But you've never stood against them before—not like this." She felt a sudden queasiness take her. "Han, be careful."

There was a smile in his voice. "Is that concern for Luke…or me?"

Leia hesitated, torn. Not by whom her concern was for—it was for both, for very different reasons…and it was that which was on her mind. Because the more she knew Han, the more she saw the kind of person he was, and the more…the more she wanted more.

She was sixteen. She'd had crushes, she'd had her first kiss two years ago, stolen with a young pilot at the back of the docking bay onboard _Home One_. She'd felt that skipping trip in her heart more than once, but after a few brief days had always been able to order herself to step back, and remember who and what she was. She didn't think it'd be so easy, this time.

"I'm just…Han, I'm a Jedi, we don't make commitments to relationships. It's forbidden."

"Yeah and that worked out so well for them all, didn't it? Sorry—I'm sorry." He was instantly repentant. "Wrong time to say that."

"It's not about that, it's about not needing to risk compromising your feelings or reactions. Already, if someone made a threat to you I'd…"

Again that grin; she could hear it in his voice, could imagine it on his lips. "You'd what?"

"Just…be careful."

"Hey, it's me," he said, as if that was explanation enough—with very little hard evidence to back it up, as far as Leia could see.

"You work with a Sith, you actually helped him to see two Jedi even though you're both in the Imperial military, you lied to a Jedi about who you were, and you're now an undercover Rebel agent," she reminded dryly.

"Sweetheart, that's not the half of it."

The funny thing was…she believed him. Wrestling the smile that he always seemed able to induce from her lips, she ordered herself back to business. "Just take any small transport, and head for the co-ordinates I'm sending now—and try to stay out of the firefight. I'll ask Chewie to do a pick-up. He'll get you safely back to _Home One_."

"I can get myself to _Home One, _if I'm in a shuttle."

"Call me overly-cautious, but I think that everyone here might prefer one of our own pilots to bring you in, rather than letting an Imperial pilot and a Sith fly one of their own shuttles into our landing bay." She let another brief smile tug at her lips as she added wryly, "It's not that we don't trust you…"

"Thanks," Han said dryly, aware that she was apeing his own words from earlier. "I guess this is it, then."

"I guess so."

"Okay. I'll…see you in the morning."

His comlink ticked off, and Leia's face fell to a brief frown, as she bit her lip. "May the Force be with you," she whispered.

.

.

.

.

Han walked back to his quarters in a daze, heart pounding and mind racing at the realization that he was now committed—and maybe he should be, for thinking he could get away with any of this, while travelling with not one, but three Sith.

He'd just agreed to help the Rebellion! Hells, he hadn't just agreed to it, he'd actually done it. He'd just handed over sensitive confidential information to the Rebel Alliance! He'd just become a conspirator—a collaborator!

He slowed, frowning. Because the one thought that was shouting louder than all the others at this moment…was why the hell didn't he feel worse about it? Why was the only thing playing on his mind, just how exactly he could finally get the kid away from Palpatine? And that was the answer, of course. That was the reason, right there.

This Empire was a reflection of the man who had made it…and because of just who exactly that man was, it could only ever be a bad thing. He didn't feel guilty because…it was the right thing to do. Even without Luke's involvement, it would have come to this, eventually—he knew that now. Had known it since he'd first seen Chewie, injured and snared but no less resolute. Known from the moment he'd looked into the Wookiee's eyes that it was _him_ that Han sympathized with, and not the Empire. He probably would have realized a whole lot sooner, had he not met the kid—would have ended up on the other side of this war one way or another anyway, Han knew.

So he felt a strange lightness of spirit as he returned to his quarters, a sense of relief that finally, he was doing the right thing. He was on the right track. It was gonna be okay.

.

The moment the door to his quarters slid back, it hit him. Not just the smell of spice; the smoke itself roiled out into the corridor at head-level, cast ruby-red. He walked quickly in and closed the door as he glanced to the ceiling, where the smoke detector dangled, its weight supported by a single wire as the other two hung free.

In the only comfy chair in the center of the room, the kid sat facing away from him, slumped awkwardly as if in sleep. Loosely held between his lax fingers was the still-smouldering remains of a spice stick.

Han felt his shoulders slump. "You're kidding me!"

Luke turned, barely able to lift his head. "Time's up. Pack…pack y'r...pack bags. You're leaving."

For a shocked moment, Han thought the kid somehow knew what he'd just been talking to Leia about. "What?"

"You're leaving." Luke's voice was low and slurred. "I've jus' spok'n with Palp…Palpatine and you're next on his hit-list—you and Indo. Time…to leave."

By now Han had walked around to face the kid, and saw the stubs of way too many other spice sticks scattered on the floor around the chair Luke sprawled in, legs pulled up beneath him, head dropped awkwardly.

"Ah, hells. How many have you had?"

Luke smiled, only semi-lucid, his eyes dark and bloodshot, lips blue. "As many 's I could find. Turns out Indo c'n hide 'em pr…pretty well."

"Yeah, well, bully for Indo," Han said as he took the kid's arm, hauling him up. "C'mon, stand up. Start walking."

"I'll walk you to…th' landing bay." His words were slow and indistinct as he struggled to get breath in between them, chest heaving unnaturally as he leaned into Han for a moment before slumping back down to the seat.

"I'm not going to the landing bay. Up—get up." Han tried to pull him up again, but the kid was barely capable. A slow panic was starting to rise in Han, as he realized just how spiced the kid was—and he knew Luke could take a lot.

As he slid back down Luke struggled to pull free, concentrating entirely on trying to prise his arm free of Han's grip. "Pack…in fact, I'll pack f…for..."

Kid trailed off, staring at Han as if he'd just come in the room, then blinked and glanced away, his trail of thought completely gone. This was bad. Han had never seen him like this. His mind was starting to race with the facts of what you did in case of overdose, aware of the fact that you could tip over the edge and deteriorate rapidly. He had vague memories that you had to keep them up, keep them moving, not give their metabolism a chance to slow fatally. Kid was already visibly struggling for breath, his whole autonomous system dropping dangerously by the minute. Fluids? Were you supposed to give them fluids?

"Fine, you pack." He was surprised how calm his voice sounded as his mind groped for any excuse to get the kid up and moving—get the spice through his system. He was way over…seriously so. "Here, I'll make caf."

"Don't like caf. Where's y'r kit-bag?"

Luke had dropped back down, loose-limbed, the moment that Han released him. Now Han stared, watching his labored breathing and blue lips, no idea whether to call a medic or not. All he knew about overdosing on spice was that one fact—you kept the guy moving, to work the spice through. Calm; you had to keep calm, keep speaking to them, keep them awake, even if they didn't make sense. Kid was only semi-lucid anyway, fixating on the fact that Han had to go somewhere, for some reason.

_Talk to him, keep him awake and moving._ "My kit bag's in the bedroom, under my bed. C'mon, we'll go get it."

This time Luke let himself be pulled up and stood, supported by Han but still swaying, as he stared at the bedroom door just steps away. "All th' way through there? ….. C'n you get it?"

"No, I'm makin' caf. You want some?" Han let him go to take his own weight a moment, so that he could head to the small console table by the entrance to pull out a cup and load it with caf granules. By the time he'd put the grounds in and turned back, waiting for an answer he didn't really need, the kid had already crumpled down again. Heart pounding at how far Luke was gone, Han was forced to take a detour, mug in hand, to haul Luke up and start walking him to the bedroom. "Up, get up."

"Wh? Han!" The kid looked at him in mild surprise, as if he hadn't even known Han was in the room.

"Up. C'mon, you need to start walking."

Luke stared a second, but his eyes flickered away as he blinked rapidly. "'m fine. Need to sleep."

"No, c'mon, up." It was a struggle, with Han practically hauling Luke across the room, the kid's steps slow and clumsy. He left Luke at the bedroom door to stride quickly into the fresher and trigger the faucet for heated drinking water to fill the cup. By the time he was back in the room, Luke had slumped to sit on the floor where he'd been left, back against the door frame.

Han crouched down. "Luke…Luke! Here, drink this."

"Wha' s' it?" Luke took the cup, but Han kept a hand on it as it angled precariously. Kid took one sniff and his head jolted back in distaste.

"Drink it—and stand up." He pulled Luke up again—kid weighed nothing, and actually holding him for the first time, Han hadn't realized until now how lean he was under that carefully tailored Ubiqtorate jacket. "You want to get the kit-bag, remember?"

"Kit-bag!" Luke said breathlessly as he scrabbled to stand, sloshing the contents of the cup as Han cursed and jolted back.

"Would you just drink that!"

"What is it?"

"It's Dybin chá."

Half-standing now, weight still against the door frame, Luke looked into the cup. "It smells like caf."

"Well, it's not. Drink it. In one."

Luke took the cup to his mouth and Han, still hold of it to steady it, tipped it so the kid's first sip turned into a choking gulp. He pulled back, banging against the door frame as he coughed. "Hot!"

"Drink the rest."

"It's caf."

"No, it's chá," Han lied. "Drink it, then I'll pack."

Luke stared a few seconds, glassy eyes wary…but when Han pressed the mug to his lips again, he took a drink.

"All of it," Han prompted, still holding the mug.

Luke drained the mug and coughed again, pulling a face. "Tastes like caf."

"Well, it's not. Stay there." Han turned about, heading for the console to fill the mug again. By the time he'd put water in, the kid was gone.

"Luke?" Han walked forward…and saw the kid in the bedroom, lying on his side on the bed, feet still on the floor, eyes closed. "No, uh-uh, no sleepin'. Get up."

He dragged Luke up again, putting the mug in his hand. "C'mon, sit up. Drink this."

"Sleep." It was barely a word, Luke's breathing having gone from labored to worryingly shallow now.

"No, no sleep. Sleep later. C'mon, drink it."

Kid's grip seemed weaker this time as he tried to take the cup, his garbled words barely audible. " 've'already drunk't."

"You didn't drink it."

Confused, the kid tipped the cup to look at the contents, as Han fought to hold it level. "See? You said you'd drink it, but you didn't yet. Drink it, then I'll pack."

"Pack?"

"You wanted me to pack."

Luke stared through hooded lids, barely aware now. Han felt his weight change as he tried to fall back onto the bed, but kept hold of him. "C'mon, you need to get up. You need to walk."

The next thirty or forty minutes went like that, with Luke seeming to get looser and less responsive, and Han trying to keep him moving and drinking the caf. In between all of that they got a total of one thing in the kit-bag, which seemed to be the single thing that the kid figured Han actually needed. It was the small holo of himself and Dewlanna which Han always took everywhere with him, and set on that same small shelf on the side wall that every standard Destroyer's cabin always had. Having gotten that into the bag, Luke slid down onto the floor, limbs loose, eyes rolling back.

"Whoa, Luke—Luke!" Han crouched down before him to grab the kid's face and lift it to his own. "Luke! You need to do that Force thing, you know? You said you can get the spice out of your system, right?"

Barely-aware eyes blinked slowly as the kid smiled, deeply amused at the suggestion. "Not th's much."

"Well try. Up—c'mon, up!" He hauled the kid up one more time, eyes on his shallow breathing and blue lips. His fingernails were blueing too, now, cold to the touch, leaving Han seriously wondering whether to call a medic. Only thing that stopped him was that he knew for a fact that Palpatine would turn on the kid with a vengeance if—_when_ he found out.

So he kept hauling him up and walking him round the small cabin. A circuit of the main room, into the bedroom, to the far wall, then back again. Make him drink some caf, then off again, round the small cabin, into the bedroom, to the far wall...

It was another hour before the kid finally began to take a little of his own weight, and pulled against Han's onward walk. "Wait, wait…s'okay. I'm okay."

"Wakin' up?"

"… Yeah." Kid still blinked slowly, his breathing labored rather than shallow, but there was a change in his voice, as he rubbed at his eyes.

"You want some more caf?"

"Hell, no."

They walked round some more, Luke drained deathly pale and visibly exhausted, but it was the kind of tired that seemed natural now, rather than the loose-limbed numbness of spice. "I need to sit down."

"You know you can't go to sleep yet, right?"

"I know."

Han pulled out a hard chair and sat Luke at the table, then sat opposite him, watchful. Luke slumped, elbows on the table, using the heels of his trembling hands to rub at his eyes.

"So," Han opened, "…you sure as hell know how to fall off the wagon big style."

Luke glanced up to throw a hard stare from bloodshot eyes, but it had no fire behind it, and he sighed as he slumped to rest his forehead on his hand again. "You have to leave."

"You said that already."

"I mean it, I'm serious this time." Kid shook his head, defeated. "What the hell is wrong with me, that I let you stay this long?"

"Luke…"

"Go. If you go now Palpatine has no test—and you don't want to be here anyway, we both know that. I'm…I'm fine."

"Right."

"I am. I can handle it all, if you just go. I always did."

Han nodded at the amassed spice stubs that he'd picked up to pile on the table, counting them in case he'd had to call a medic. "With this? No, you can't. All or nothing, remember? That's who you are. It's who you've had to be, just to survive here… But you don't have to just survive—and you sure as hell don't have to do it here."

"I can't leave, not—"

"You can—you really can, I promise you that… But you won't, while you're using this stuff. I told you before, all it will ever do is hold you back."

Luke's head had dropped into his hands again, voice weak. "Not now…"

Han sighed, trying hard to curb his frustration. "I thought the deal was that you come to me with any problems, from now on."

"I didn't go to Indo…I just went to Indo's rooms."

"Yeah, kinda missing the point. The deal was, we sorted stuff out without this."

Kid sighed tiredly. "You can't sort this out. But I can—I should have done it a long time ago."

"You want to tell me what it is?"

Luke stared for a long time, still-dilated pupils making his eyes uncharacteristically dark. "You'd think it'd still be okay, and you'd say you didn't care what he said, and…it's not. Just…go, Han Go to Leia. Look after her, instead. She won't put you through all this. That's what you really want, isn't it—to be with her."

Kid glanced down, guilty at his own words, and Han shook his head, so much becoming clear. "Luke, what'd I tell you? I won't walk out on you—ever. Don't doubt that. Yeah, I want to see more of her, but that's…it's got nothing to do with you, and this, or wanting to leave, understand?" Han glanced down, feeling his own sudden burst of guilt. "I mean, it's gotta do with…with wanting us both out of here, altogether."

"I'm not leaving—ever. I'm not even getting away from Palpatine any more." Kid shook his head wearily, too exhausted to explain or argue further. "That's me, not you. You need to go."

It wasn't going to work, Han knew that; he was never gonna convince the kid. If he'd had a year it wouldn't work, let alone a night. "I told you, if I was gonna do that, I'd've done it a long time ago."

"This isn't about whether…whether I want you to go, not any more. It's about when you have to." Luke slumped forward onto the table, dragging his fingers through his hair. "This has all gone so wrong, so completely wrong!"

"What?"

"You…Vader. Palpatine's right, everything I touch, I drag down."

"Vader?" Han stared, baffled by the curve-ball the kid had thrown now.

"I never meant it to be like this." Luke straightened, suddenly intense as he looked to Han. "I didn't mean to play it out like this at all. But he misunderstood—why wouldn't he—and I…for the first time in my life, I had something on Vader."

"His son?" Han realized what Luke was talking about, struggling to keep up with unconnected events, but figuring it was just the spice. He knew the kid had been fixating on Vader recently, particularly since that vial of blood Luke had gotten hold of, but… "You know who his son is, don't you? You actually do know?"

"Yes, I know who he is—he's me!"

There was a good ten seconds of silence as Han stared, struggling to connect all the dots…but he couldn't even begin to make sense of it. "You?"

"Yes!"

"What about Kenobi?"

"It was Kenobi who told me."

"The blood sample!" Han remembered being stood in the library back at the palace when Luke had turned up with the vial of blood that he'd claimed was from Vader's son, just a day or so after he'd seen Kenobi. Han had assumed…well, first, he'd assumed that Vader's _son_ had been Vader's daughter, and it was Leia. Then when it was definitely male, he'd figured that Kenobi had given the sample to Luke as proof that Vader somehow had a son who was in the Alliance, of all things. Now…now, he didn't know what the hell to think.

"The sample Kenobi gave me was his own," Luke admitted. "To prove that he and I weren't related."

"And the sample you gave Vader…"

"Wasn't the same blood sample. It was mine. Kenobi didn't hand his own son over to the Organas, he handed Vader's. To protect him from…from Vader and Palpatine."

"How come…wait, why doesn't Palpatine know? You said he did DNA tests when you first came here?"

"He does, he's the one who first lied to Vader! He must have changed samples and medical records before Vader got back to Coruscant that first time—he had two full days to alter them, and to make sure the deception remained in place."

"…Why?"

"Seriously?" Luke lifted his head a fraction more, a little of his old cynicism returning. "You said it yourself. Vader, Palpatine's second-in-command, has a son, whose abilities are equal to Vader's—and we're both right there in the Imperial palace. Does that sound like a recipe for split loyalties to you? And you know damn well that if there's one thing that the Emperor doesn't tolerate, it's a division of attention. There's only one focus, and it's him."

"I know that, I know why Palpatine would have lied to Vader. I meant…why did you? Why did you lie, once you knew?"

"I don't know!" There was a desperate edge to Luke's frantic words.

"Are you gonna tell him?"

Luke straightened, seeming to pull himself together. "And say what? I'm the son you never wanted?"

"You don't know that."

"I _know_. I just wanted…" Luke paused, struggling for words in a language he'd long since lost. "That first time, when he came to see me with the results of the blood test, he was…he just so clearly wanted to see his son. And of course it couldn't be me, because we all know my past, so he assumed that I was somehow hiding his son, and…and I knew he'd walk away if he realized the truth, if he knew that it was me. He'd turn away, turn his back on me."

"Luke…"

"He hates me. He always has, you know that. I just wanted…I wanted to see someone care. It didn't matter that he didn't know it was me. I just wanted to see someone…care."

Han dragged his own hands through his hair. Just hours ago, he'd made the deal to get Luke out of here, hoping to trade on the fact once they were there, that Luke was actually the son of one of their own Jedi, and now…now it turned out that the kid was Vader's son! "You couldn't have told me this earlier?" he murmured at last beneath his breath. This was a major complication.

"Oh, you haven't heard the full glory of it yet," Luke said dryly. "You want to know his name—his real name?"

"I thought you said it was An…Anakin?"

"Anakin," Luke nodded. "Anakin Skywalker."

Han stared, feeling a fizz in his head; that sense that this was suddenly all too big and too serious. "As in…?" He shook his head. "No, there's got to be a lot of Skywalkers out there."

"You'd be surprised. But I can tell you for a fact that Obi-Wan Kenobi had a padawan named Anakin Skywalker just before the Clone Wars—I remember it from when I was reading…reading what I thought was my own father's files." A brief, ironic smile came to and left his lips in a single instant. "Turns out I was."

Han stared, eyes skipping the table as he tried to pull all this together, looking at the pile of spent spice stubs which the kid had OD'd with; his bitten-short nails. Remembering all that the kid had repeatedly said about Palpatine keeping himself and Vader always at loggerheads, as he glanced up to the fading scar over Luke's eye, where Vader had caught him that heavy blow with as much power as he could muster…

He'd had more than enough to hate the vile, contemptible old son of a nek before, but this…it was grimy and it was malicious and it was sickening…and in all honesty, it didn't even surprise him. Like the kid, who simply stared now, he felt only an empty resignation. "So that yellow-eyed bastard sold you all out."

Luke glanced down, frowning just slightly; even now, he was uneasy at Han's words. "And now you _have_ to go." There was guilt in his voice.

Han broke off, momentarily thrown. "Me? Why do I have to go?"

"Because you know too much, Han. You have to leave. If you don't, you risk putting Leia in the line of fire, and I know you don't want to do that. Palpatine doesn't know about her connection to Vader at all. I can hide what I know…you can't...so you have to leave."

Han stared, aware that he'd been backed neatly into a corner. "I can hide stuff."

"Not from him."

"I can hide stuff from you, so—" Han broke off, nervous of revealing too much.

"I don't look, Han," the kid said quietly. "I stopped a while back, didn't you realize?"

"You stopped because you were finally starting to listen to yourself again instead of just him!"

"And look what it got me."

"Don't," Han said, realizing. "Don't let him control you like this. Don't let him isolate you. This isn't loyalty, it's being manipulated. He's not worth it."

Luke glanced down. "He did what he had to, to hold his rule together—hold the Empire together. To keep control of what he had."

"_Who_ he had," Han corrected. "You!"

"Because he needs me. He needs protection against…against Vader."

"Are you serious?" Han's voice was rising. "Are you seriously trying to defend him!"

"Defend him?" Luke's head came up, his tired voice taking on an edge. "He doesn't need defending—he's the Emperor!"

"No!" Han brought his finger up to point, not willing to accept the kid's wilful disregard of anything that made him question the loyalty that had been so mercilessly ground into him since he was a kid. "No, he's the man who ripped the Old Republic apart to fuel his own power trip. He's the man who ordered the massacre of the Jedi—outlawed an entire race, for fear that they could stop him. He's the man who legalized slavery to build his Empire that much faster. He's—"

"Just stop!" Luke lurched up, and would have strode from the room, but his weakness made him waver, swaying on the spot, so that he sat back down quickly, before he fell.

Han's voice dropped as he stared at the kid, knowing. "He's the man who screwed you up so bad that you're actually gonna let him get away with this, aren't you?"

Luke's voice was a hollow whisper as he rested his head in his hand. "What do you want me to do—seriously?"

"Walk away. Just turn around and walk the hell away. I can get us—"

"This is my life! And I know that you think it's some broken, twisted, worthless piece of crap, but it's all I've got! It's all I am!" He quietened, half-desperate, half pleading. "You think that he controls me completely, I know that—but you don't understand. Look at me—look at what I do, if I have to make those decisions myself…look at what I did to my own parents! I _can't be trusted_. I let everyone down, eventually."

"You didn't let them down," Han said quietly.

Kid only looked away, shutting him out yet again, this final barrier still intact. "You don't understand."

"Well then tell me!"

"I can't, not…not that." Luke shook his head, dropping it forward to rest in his hands. "I can tell you that the only valid and useful thing I've done in my entire life is to serve. It's the only thing I've ever done right…and you want me to screw this up, too."

"Listen to me—he told you that to keep you here. Luke, if you don't walk away now, knowing this, you never will, understand me? He'll _always_ own you."

"You don't betray your Master—ever."

"He's not your Master, he's your owner. Chewbacca—Chewie was in shackles and locked behind bars every night, but he was less of a slave than you!"

The kid stared—just stared for the longest time. Finally he brought his hand back up to rub at his forehead, where Han knew that a mighty headache would be beginning to pound as he spoke in a near-whisper, wounded and raw.

"I know that…don't you think I already know that."

.

.

They sat in silence for a long time, Han not knowing what to say, the kid with his arms folded on the table now, his head resting on them, his face hidden.

And this was it, Han knew—this really was it, because he'd been speaking the truth when he'd said that if Luke couldn't turn away now, having admitted the truth about all that the yellow-eyed bastard had done, having acknowledged that his place here was no better than a slave's, a commodity to be owned and used…if Luke couldn't walk away now, he never would.

_He never would._

It was strangely calming, to know that. To know that the decision had been made for Han, in a way. Luke would never walk away, and Han would never walk away from the kid…

But he'd damn well get him out of here. And if the only way to do that was by subterfuge, by stealing him away against his will…well then so be it.

He considered, briefly, if he could possibly change the way things went down to get Vader out too, but it wouldn't work—not with Vader. Getting Luke out was near-impossible. And seriously, what could Vader offer the kid anyway? What had he ever given him, but grief? As far as Han could tell, an accidental crossing of fate and fatherhood wasn't gonna change that, not for someone like Vader.

No…Luke was going to hate Han anyway, for trying to get him out at all. He knew that—and he could live with it, if he had to. Kid may as well hate him for leaving Vader behind, too.

He nodded just once to himself, sure now. There was actually a kind of comfort to it; to committing himself to this path, knowing the risks. The price. He'd be an outlaw for the rest of his life

He looked to Luke, wondering if he should ask the kid if he wanted the bunk in the next room, knowing somehow that Luke wouldn't leave—not tonight. Eventually he rose and walked into his small bedroom to take the blanket from the bed, pausing as he walked back into the main room to turn out the lights before he draped the blanket over Luke's shoulders, without a reaction.

Someone had to look after him—be to the kid what Dewlanna had once been for Han. It had taken him a good few months to know just what that meant, and a few more to come to terms with it, make it work, but Han knew absolutely now that it had to be him. Not because he was the only one who would but because, when all was said and done, he was the one who wanted to. That was what mattered…was probably what had mattered for Dewlanna, too. There shouldn't be guilt attached to that, Han realized—to the fact that she had given her life for him. She wouldn't have wanted that. For the first time, he realized just how much he'd hate the kid to think that he was here out of some sense of self-imposed obligation, just the same way that Han had wondered of Dewlanna's sacrifice, for years. Now, standing in her place, he knew absolutely that it wasn't that at all—that she would have been mortified to think he'd believed it for one second, let alone this long.

You did what you did…for love, he supposed. Kid was like a brother to him. How often had Dewlanna ruffled Han's wild, uncut hair and called him her cub? He let out a silent laugh, wishing that she were here right now, so that he could tell her that she hadn't just given him his freedom, she'd given him something else, too—the knowledge of what to do with it. She'd shown him that it was okay to feel like this, to want to protect another. He'd learned it by shining example. That was how it all worked; how the galaxy turned. He knew that now. And maybe he'd come too late to this, and maybe the kid would never get as much back as Han had, growing up with Dewlanna…but Han knew with a calm recognition in that moment, that he'd pour what he could into the gaping voids in the kid's life…and he'd get him out of here. He'd damn well get him out of here.

Luke remained still throughout Han's musings, head still hidden in the crook of his arm, resting on the desk. Han sensed his drawn weariness, his tense exhaustion…but the kid wouldn't sleep. Instead, he sat up and seemed to take hold of himself. No less wounded, but as if a decision had been reached by him, too, in these moments; something of import. He didn't look up though, kept his head low and his gaze on the table as he offered quietly, "I can tell you now."

Han frowned, trying to see the kid's face in the half-darkness, the only light that leached in coming from beyond his bedroom door. "Tell me what?"

"My parents—Bail and Breha Organa—I can tell you now."

"Why do you call them that?"

"My parents? Because…because they tried so hard to be, I know that. Because…I don't know—" He hunched down further, struggling to say something, so Han gave him time, waiting in silence. Eventually Luke shrugged, eyes never lifting. "Because I loved them."

Knowing how much it had taken the kid to say that…knowing that he wanted to say more, Han pulled out the chair opposite and dragged it around the table and closer to the kid before he sat again. "Go on…"

.

.

.

Aware of Han's mood shift in the last hour, from frustration to resignation to peace, and aware that he had locked his own decision to get Han away from here into place by telling him the truth, and that this may well be his last chance to tell this to anyone, ever, Luke loosed a long sigh, preparing himself, gathering his thoughts.

He'd never told this to anyone. Not even Indo, who knew only that his parents had been Bail and Breha Organa, and that they'd died in the feigned assassination on Palpatine's command, when Luke was seven. No one knew the real truth. No one but he and Palpatine. It was their secret, his Master had always said. He'd promised that he'd tell no one the truth of Luke's appalling failings. It was their secret, always. Theirs alone.

Already Luke doubted his ability to say it, but he wanted to… If he could just start talking, he would be able to do this.

He just needed to say that first word. Just speak…

.

.

Han waited in still silence, giving the kid time—maybe to find the words, maybe to find the nerve…maybe both. When he finally did, his voice was hoarse and hesitant and tired. But he spoke.

"Palpatine…maybe he wanted to clarify that I had nothing to run to. He thought I was trying to escape, but…" Han heard the appeal, the defeated regret, and knew the kid was still trying to explain, even now—the justification Palpatine would never have allowed. "I just... I wanted to see the sky. I wanted to see the stars. It was a stupid thing to keep doing, and it was for nothing. They died for nothing at all."

"Bail and Breha? They died because Palpatine wanted control of you, you know that," Han held. "It wasn't your fault."

Luke shook his head, and Han fell to silence again, waiting, until eventually the kid spoke again, haltingly.

"I was eleven, exactly. And…six days earlier, I'd managed to break out of the Throne Room again. I was kept in there all the time, then. All the time. Locked in there for four years. That was my world, day and night, for four years. I just wanted to see the sky. I wasn't trying to run—where did I have to go? I just wanted to see..." He halted as he lifted his head to Han; let out a breath which broke the moment, so that his voice dropped to a calm monotone as he continued. "My Master was…more… I suppose he was at the end of his tether with my doing this. I'd been doing it about every four or five months for over two years by then—a long time. I think he wanted to…clarify his position. I'd already been six days in the medicenter. He'd…my arm and my ankle were broken… I think he'd broken some ribs too—I don't remember."

"How can you not remember?" Han murmured, incensed.

Kid only shrugged, the casual dismissal with which he always viewed his own maltreatment all the more disturbing. "It was commonplace, then. To separate out one incident is hard… I remember I was woken up well after midnight and taken back to the Throne Room. I knew I was in trouble anyway—I always was, for this. They took me back in, dropped me in a heap on the floor—I couldn't stand for a couple more days; not without a struggle. Palpatine was by himself, so I knew this wasn't going to go well. If he had a point to make, he generally did so when we were alone.

"There was a holo-projector set up on the floor at the foot of the dais, and for just a moment I thought it might be okay, because I couldn't think of any way it could hurt me. I thought maybe it was just a task, something he needed me to do… I don't know—blind hope." Luke shook his head in disbelief at his own desperate naiveté, eyes distant, lost in the memory.

"He just sat and watched me for a long time. Watched me try to work out what was going on. Waited until he saw me relax a little. Then he asked very calmly, 'Do you remember Alderaan?' And I knew…I knew it was something bad."

"I said no—I said I didn't remember anything. I told him this was my life now and nothing else mattered. I told him I'd been foolish and I wouldn't be again, told him everything I thought he wanted to hear, even when I knew it wouldn't work. Not with him. He let me say it all anyway, of course. Let me babble on. Let me try. Then, when I finally ran out of words, he turned on the holo-projector."

Luke took a long, trembling breath, shaking his head slightly at the memory. "And…it was my parents—it was Breha and Bail Organa. I thought it was an old recording, something to torment me with. But…in the holo, they were kneeling on the floor, their hands behind their heads and…and stormtroopers were standing behind them. My mother, my beautiful mother, whose hair had always been pinned in thick, heavy, glossy plaits, shot through with ribbons or pearls…now it fell across her face in straggled strands, loose and tangled. Then I saw them react, and my mother—Breha—she said my name, and I realized they could see me too. That this wasn't an old recording…they were actually alive, now. Four years after they were supposed to have died—after I'd watched from the balcony sixteen levels up, as they'd walked out to step into that speeder—they were still alive."

Han moved uneasily at the thought of it, held to tense silence as Luke spoke on, eyes skipping the floor before him, seeming barely aware of Han's presence now.

"And my…my mother started crying. And I couldn't do the same—I wanted to, instantly, the moment I saw their faces, but I couldn't, not in front of my Master. I had to look away, look past them, ignore them."

.

.

Luke glanced up…and for a moment he remembered where he was, and said calmly into the appalled revulsion in Han's eyes, "I should have realized, you see; the powder blue dress."

The memory of it dragged him back, instantly enveloping him as he brought his fingers together. Even now he could feel the fabric of the gown, soft as a butterfly's wing, and warm to the touch; summer blue. Powder blue. "When they went out to the speeder she was still wearing the blue dress, the dress she'd worn that day. But they'd come back to dress for dinner—the only reason they came back to the apartment was to dress for dinner. Yet the woman I saw getting into the speeder still wore a powder blue dress—a dress I'd remember, from earlier—and I did. I still do; I remember it distinctly, remember its train blowing in the wind."

"It wasn't them," Han said, as understanding dawned. "It wasn't them who you saw getting into the speeder."

Luke shook his head slightly, voice quieting. "It was for me—all for me. All Palpatine, making it clear that he could take anything and everything from me. Palpatine, breaking that tie.

"They must have been too valuable to…to kill outright. I don't know. All I knew in that moment was that my parents, who I'd thought were dead for the last four years, were alive and in front of me. They were alive! I had…I remember that one second of elation, of joy, and then…then I knew what he was going to do. It was like reality did one slow, complete loop around me as all the blood ran from my head. If I'd've been standing, I would have fallen. Just crumpled down, I know it. I couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. I knew what he was going to do.

"My father, Bail, was…he was gaunt and greying, and his eyes seemed so wide as…as he whispered words of reassurance that we both knew he couldn't deliver. After four years with Palpatine, I knew that." Luke paused, suddenly removed from the emotion, quite calm. "That would have been the first time—the first time in four years that anybody had said my name. It didn't even register at the time."

He looked to Han, blinking rapidly as the glints of starlight through the viewport behind him spread into starbursts. "Palpatine asked me if I remembered their names, and I said no, so he…he does this action with the Force sometimes where he throws a body-blow at you, but from all directions at once, so you don't move, but…it…it knocks the air from your lungs completely, drops you to the ground if you're standing, whites out your vision for a few seconds."

Han shook his head, disgust rolling off him in waves, that Palpatine would do this to an already injured child. But he didn't understand, Luke knew; it wasn't important—not that. Bodies healed, he'd long since learned that. Some scars cut far deeper.

"He asked again if I knew their names. I was about to say no again, but he interrupted before I spoke, and told me to think very carefully about my answer because a great deal rode on it. So I said yes, because I was afraid he'd hurt them. I said yes.

"And he leaned back, very pleased with himself, and told me I'd said the right thing. And stupidly I thought, just for a second, that I'd actually done the right thing… Then I looked through the image at my Master. I looked into his eyes, and I knew he would go through with it. I knew."

.

.

Han watched in slowly creeping horror as the kid's brow furrowed, breaths coming short, seeming at once completely lost within, and yet strangely detached from the memory. "I think…I think I started crying—I don't remember. Palpatine didn't react at all, though I hadn't cried in years. He asked…he asked me if I knew that today was my birthday, which I didn't. He said perhaps Bail Organa could remember how old I was, but my father wouldn't speak. Someone…put…put a gun to my mother's head and he shouted out—shouted that I was eleven…eleven.

"My Master said, since it was my birthday, he would grant me one favor. He said…he said whichever name I said aloud, that person would be killed. All I had to do was say one name. That person would die…but the other, the one whose name I didn't say, would live. And I had eleven seconds to decide.

"I shook my head—I couldn't. I couldn't do that." He did the same now, in empathy with the memory, eyes glistening. "But my Master…he said that if I named no one, they would both be shot. They would both be… It was my decision, he said, my choice—mine alone. One or both. Whatever happened, it was my decision…my fault.

"And the stormtroopers put blaster rifles to their heads and…and Palpatine started counting down and…they started shouting." The regret in his voice as he said it, the resigned dread, even now… "They each started shouting to me to say their name—to save the other by shouting their name, and I…I didn't know what…I couldn't…"

Han stared, stomach churning in sympathy, breath held frozen in his lungs as the kid's words began to tumble over each other, now.

"Everyone was shouting, everyone was… I couldn't say a name—I couldn't—how do you choose? They were my parents, how can you name who lives and who dies? Then…" Luke flinched in the darkness, taking in a hitched breath. "Then it was zero…it was zero and…" The barest breath came out, a broken, wordless shock at the memory which held him silent and unseeing for long seconds…before finally he spoke, voice small and unsteady. "They were looking…they were both looking at me and…I remember—I remember exactly. In that last second as Palpatine said zero, my mother, Breha…she turned—just for a moment she glanced to my…to Bail, then she turned back to me and her eyes, her eyes were so wide in that moment. Then she just….she just…burst apart and…"

His voice broke completely and Han could only listen in the darkness, aware of the depth of the kid's grief, measured by his fast, hitched breathing as he fought to hold himself together.

"The pictures," Han murmured at last. "The faces you draw…the man and the woman. They're not shouting—they're…" _screaming;_ _terrified_. He didn't say it. Didn't need to. He knew now what they were, obsessively drawn and redrawn a thousand times, that moment, that memory, scribbled over and gouged out again and again…but the kid could never quite erase it, no matter how he tried. He just kept on seeing it in his mind's eye. Kept on living that moment.

"Luke, it wasn't your fault…it wasn't." It was all he could find to say in that moment, though he knew how pitifully inadequate it was.

.

.

Luke pulled back slightly, head tucked in against the deluge of unchecked emotions that welled up in Han so intensely that they threatened to swamp him, too; steeled against the murmured sophistries that he couldn't bring himself to hear.

He sighed briefly, concentrating intensely, trying to pull back from the memories even a little. When he found his voice again, it was a hoarse whisper. "Palpatine walked through the image to me, like he was walking over their bodies. I was just…they were my family, the only ones who had ever…" He broke off as the words came too fast, the memory still vivid. It took a while to gather himself, so that when he continued his voice had slowed, regret replacing the near-panic of moments before.

"He…he leaned down and put his hand on my shoulder so gently, as I knelt there. That empty consolation, as if it had been nothing to do with him, as if he genuinely felt anything at all. He asked me…he said, 'You let them die…why did you let them die? You _let them_ die.' I couldn't breathe, couldn't take a breath in, couldn't… Then he said that…that it was for the best way. That I'd done the right thing—I'd made the right choice in saying neither name. He said attachments were only ever a weakness. Said he would have killed them both anyway. For…for me. He said he was proud that I'd made that choice myself. I tried to say I hadn't, that I hadn't wanted them to die, that…"

His words strangled off, the memory possessing the same potent power to take his breath today, as it had in that devastating moment.

"He took my jaw and he held my mouth closed against what I was trying to say. But he lifted my head, and he looked…looked into my eyes in realization, and the...the _contempt_ in his voice as he spoke… He said, 'Then you meant one to live—you wanted to save one?', and he shook his head as his shoulders slumped. I remember it exactly; his expression, the revulsion in his voice, as he said, "Oh, child…what have you done? How could you fail them so completely, when all you had to do was speak a name? And me—how could you fail me so utterly, as to even consider doing so?'."

Luke stilled to an unmarked stretch of silence as the moments replayed in absolute clarity. "Then he…he said it should be our secret, that I'd killed them. He said he'd never tell anybody what I'd done, how low I'd fallen. It was ours alone, this secret. This…"

_This horror. This shame. _He'd lived it in nightmares a thousand times in the still of night, looking for ever more extreme methods to disperse it. It was the reason he'd slept so badly, forcing himself awake, the reason he'd stolen away from the palace in the dead of night in search of life and noise, the reason he'd willingly taken the tablets Indo had given him at first, night after night, to push the memories back—but they didn't.

He still remembered with the lucid, flawless clarity that only the Force could render, the response of his Master as he'd reached with such empty compassion to wipe the tears from Luke's face, long, cracked nails digging deep red welts into his cheeks, unnoticed:

"_I am the only constant in your life, child. I am the only center, the very foundation. And I am the holder of secrets, now—I know you, as no one else does, or ever will. No one else…ever. For you, I will keep this terrible failure forever hidden. _

"_I will leave you with your thoughts. Consider how you feel—how devastated, how crushed, how powerless. This is weakness, and any weakness will always be like this, unless it is stamped out. You will always be like this—this vulnerable, this desolate. This is not the Sith way, child. A Sith learns never to allow any weakness in himself. You are mine, now, and this is your path. This is your future, your life. It is what you must do from this day on; seek out and eradicate such pitiful flaws by strength of will. If you do not, then I will certainly do it for you." _

He'd held Luke's chin in his hand, as he had done the very first time they met, to lift tear blurred eyes up to his own. _"This moment—this terrible failure—is our secret alone, I promise you. And you need never, never feel like this again, if you heed your Master's words."_

Cold fingers had dragged gently across Luke's lip before Palpatine turned away to walk to the opening doors, leaving Luke on his knees in the shaft of light from the bright hall beyond. The beam narrowed to a fine slice as the still Throne Room was swallowed once again by darkness, but Palpatine had paused at the doors, half-turning, his shadow cloaking Luke's quietly sobbing form.

"He told me," Luke remembered out loud, voice reduced to a broken whisper as the memories tumbled in that same vivid flash of vibrant color: powder blue atomizing into a haze of deep scarlet. "He told me… 'This is my gift to you. You are one year older, and many years wiser'."

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Han reached out to pull Luke to him, and Luke struggled to push back, not wanting the closeness that might tear apart what shields and sanity he still held. But he wouldn't let go, and Luke had so little left to fight with now, as Han wrapped one arm about his shoulders, the other about the back of his head to pull Luke in to his shoulder…protectively though, not claiming or cloying, as any touch from his Master had always been.

And slowly, still straining against the hold, his body rigid, his mouth clamped shut…Luke cried. Cried like the child he'd been then, as only a child could, when confronted by that terrible, brutal, gaping loss—and the hideous knowledge that it was by his own hand.

"It's all right…it's all right, Luke. I got you, I've got you now." Holding him tight, Han whispered regrets and reassurance as Luke's chest hitched, lungs locking against the power of the sobs that racked his body. He cried himself quiet, then cried again, silently this time. In regret, in grief, in guilt... And gradually, lulled by Han's whispers and the uncomplicated sense of his open, unconditional protection, he drifted, exhausted, into a restless sleep.

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Luke woke slowly to half-hushed sounds in the room beyond, his head pounding painfully, mouth unnaturally dry. Just opening his eyes hurt, and every inch of him ached its protest at last night's maltreatment. But the noises continued, and eventually Luke forced blurred vision into focus, to realize that he was lying in Han's bed, still fully dressed, light seeping in from the main room beyond.

Unsteady and nauseous, he slowly sat up, one hand against the bridge of his nose to hold his thumping pulse at bay, the other against his queasy stomach. Flinching in the bright light, he walked slowly through into the main room to see a blanket abandoned on the single comfy chair where Han must have slept, and realized that Han must have lifted him and carried him through to the bed last night without waking him, so drained had Luke been.

Turning slowly, head still swimming, Luke could see Han standing in the fresher, using the drinking faucet with the heater turned up to full to brew two mugs of something pungent and aromatic, as most crewmen used to life on a Destroyer had found that you could. He didn't look around, concentrating just a little too much on his task, an air of veiled discomfort about him. A half-remembered flash of memory surfaced from the previous night, of Han alternately brewing endless cups of caf and walking Luke around the room. He blinked slowly, shaking his head just slightly in self-censure. Idiot; what had he been trying to do, spice himself into oblivion? It never worked, he knew that.

He'd gone dangerously over the edge several times but had always been found, and it always left him as he was now, head thudding, his whole body trembling, thoughts erratic and diffuse. At least Han would get his wish; if Luke touched any more for a week or more, it'd push him over the edge again. Make him do stupid things, as he had last night. Luke blanched, remembering all that he'd revealed—more than he'd ever told anyone. But it hadn't been as one-sided as it seemed, because Han had come to some decision last night too, he knew. Something had changed, in his strengthening commitment. Some final doubt had been overcome—Luke had sensed it quite clearly. It was what had pushed him on, to share his darkest secret.

Now though, in the painful light of day, he felt foolish and juvenile to have admitted it at all, let alone its profound effect. Felt angry at himself for wasting even one night, when he should have been working toward getting Han off the ship for good. Palpatine's _test_ still hung heavy in the forefront of his thoughts, all of its implications coming back now to take his breath in an exhausted sigh. If he could get Han away though, then the test was null and void, saving both his and Indo's lives. He could cut the tie with Han, as his Master wanted, but on his own terms. There'd be a price to pay, of course—a _big_ price, for undoing all that his Master had so carefully set in place, Luke knew that…but he was used to it. That was just…just his life, here.

Han remained silent and withdrawn, his unease discernible even to Luke's dulled senses, leaving Luke to wonder if he felt as awkward as Luke did, right now. Eventually though, Han walked fromt he 'fresher, head down as he held out a cup. "Here. I brought a clean shirt over from your room, too. You need to get dressed. We're late—Indo's already waiting in the main hangar."

Luke took it, uncertain what to say as Han moved to the viewport to stare at the slowly-spinning mass of the Corsin Drydock, where the _Conqueror_ and the _Devastator_ were already docked, other Destroyers visible about it in a loose defensive circle. Something about the darkness of deep space beyond snatched his thoughts for a stretched instant…then he looked back to Han, who moved slightly, still not having once met his eye. Luke glanced down and took a sip of the drink, grimacing as his stomach recoiled at its syrupy sweetness and sharp bitterness.

Han half-turned. "Drink it. It's Asobi caf, it'll wake you up."

"It tastes burned."

Han didn't reply, instead walking into the small bedroom to rattle things around, feigning busyness, though Luke could sense his unease, tightly wrapped and held in check.

Eventually, aware that Han was avoiding him, he drained the mug, picked up his clean shirt, and quietly left.

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Han stepped back into the main room as the outer door slid shut, letting all the stringent shields that he'd raised—shields that the kid had taught him to use—drop just a little. He walked over to the mug that Luke had left on the table and lifted it, to check that it was empty. The heavy dose of granular sweetener that he'd used to disguise the taste of its cocktail of makeshift drugs moved in the dregs of the empty mug, its contents drunk. Pursing his lips, Han let out a brief, taut sigh.

This was it; it had started.

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To be continued…..

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	31. Chapter 31

Hey all,

Just a few things I wanted to mention; first, sorry there's been a chunk of a delay in getting this chapter out; I actually contracted pneumonia three weeks ago, and have been swimming in a haze for a while. I'm still a little rough, so though I've posted a chapter, I haven't yet done any replies to last chapter's comments, I'm afraid. I have, however, read them all avidly, and want to thank everyone for posting them. But I only have so much of an attention span, and I figured you'd prefer a new chapter to post replies, so here you go…

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Secondly, a few people have realized that we're into the final rush, and been asking how much is still to go. Since it's just finished, I can tell you that there are **thirty-three chapters in all**, so not long, now. Hope you enjoy :)

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**CHAPTER THIRTY-****ONE**

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The shuttle rocked just slightly as it passed through the atmospheric shields of the _Relentless'_ main bay and out into space bearing towards Corsin Drydock where the _Conqueror_ was moored, flanked to her nearside by Vader's Destroyer the _Devastator_ and to the far by the _Retort_, presumably the ship that Moff Jerjerrod had travelled in. Though that could have been any of the other new Destroyers present, Han knew Palpatine well enough by now to know that the Old Man took any opportunity to illustrate who was presently in favor and who wasn't, and who docked where was surely a prime example.

Bearing that in mind, he should perhaps have been more disgruntled that their own ride, the _Relentless,_ was stationed in the outer defense ring, about as far from the Drydock as possible. But all things considered he'd been nothing but relieved by their distance from the main action…right up until the message had come through from the _Conqueror_ about an hour ago, summoning the kid to Palpatine's presence—and blowing apart all of Han's plans in the process.

Not that he hadn't been expecting _something_, given the complications that just naturally seemed to gather about his life of late, but that sure as hell didn't make it any more welcome. This was bad, even by his standards.

As their banking shuttle's trajectory pushed the impressive spectacle of Corsin Drydock from view Han brought his gaze back into the shuttle, where Luke sat tensely to his left, and Indo in the seat to the far side of the kid—another unanticipated problem.

Day was goin' great so far.

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Having laid the exhausted and finally sleeping kid down in his bunk in the early hours of the morning, Han had dragged his mind together to get some kind of a plan in shape, knowing he had only hours before everything kicked off….and his eyes had come to rest on the burned-out spice butts still piled on the table.

Stealing quietly away to Luke's empty quarters, he'd practically ransacked them looking for spice, aware that Luke would have at least one stash of it there somewhere, particularly since he'd admitted that the spice he'd overdosed on had been stolen from Indo's quarters. But it sure as hell hadn't been easy to find, a fact that had forced Han to then have to take the kid some clothes for the following day, and let Luke sleep in, in Han's apartment. The plain fact was that he'd needed to make sure the kid would have no time to go back to his own quarters, 'cos Han couldn't have even begun to put them straight again.

But he'd eventually found a stash of Ruby spice, then sneaked back into his own apartment, careful not to wake Luke. Knowing that he still had a number of the sleeping tablets that he was supposed to have given Luke every night, but never had, he'd rifled his own drawers for them, blessing the fact that he'd not flushed them weeks ago. In his fresher with the door locked, Han had ground ten of the sleeping tablets into a powder and, remembering that the kid could use the Force to process drugs from his system, five Ruby spice crystals, figuring that the tablets would knock the kid out, and the Ruby would at the very least inhibit his ability to use the Force to process them out of his system and wake himself up. In the early morning silence, he'd sent out his final confirmation to Leia, and with it a brief request for a medic ready to deal with a serious overdose when he and the kid arrived.

By that time, having not yet even laid down, he'd heard the kid stir and made up two mugs of ridiculously strong, sweet caf, intending to give Luke the one that had the drug cocktail in. It would have put a Wookiee out for a week, Han knew. With the kid…it would likely buy no more than a few hours of unconsciousness—but that was all he'd hoped he'd need.

Then the summons from Palpatine had arrived via Indo, as a message to Han's comlink. Still in the fresher, he'd cursed for a minute straight—would have yelled out loud, had the kid not been in the next room. As it was, his sleep-deprived mind had cobbled together Plan B as best it could.

Plan A had been to give the kid the draught and ask to pilot the shuttle himself when they'd set out on their daily trip over to the _Conqueror_ that morning, claiming to need the practice. Knowing that Luke would pass out onboard the shuttle and that they'd also have no specific arrival time, Han had intended to contact Leia by the comlink code she'd left him and identify the _Conqueror_ by name and position, then turn for open space and get the hell away from the ship that his actions would have identified as a big fat target.

Plan B was the 'no-choice-but-to' kind—the kind that had huge, gaping holes in it—in which he'd travel over to the Emperor's Destroyer on command, which meant a pre-anticipated arrival time and both Luke _and_ Indo in tow, and have to hope that the kid didn't pass out before they even reached the damn shuttle. Then he had to set his comlink to transmit the code, somehow figure out a way to offload both it and Indo onboard the _Conqueror_, as well as get rid of the pilot, while keeping himself and an unconscious Luke onboard the shuttle so that they could get the hell off the Destroyer that his actions had _still_ identified as the target.

Now, with the shuttle well on its way and the kid still wide awake and compos mentis, Han was beginning to panic—because he didn't have a Plan C…

He moved uneasily in his seat, thoughts divided between the knowledge that he had to remember every second to use the abilities that Luke himself taught Han, in order to misdirect any guilty emotions he might be shunting the kid's way, and so hide the facts from him, while still trying to figure out a way to make damn sure that no matter what happened, he took not one foot off of the shuttle and into the _Conqueror'_s bay. Luke had stopped randomly reading his mind, Han knew that now, but Old Yellow Eyes sure as hell wouldn't think twice about it if Han was skulking around feeling guilty—and he didn't think he'd get the leeway necessary to try a little creative misdirection there.

Reflecting that he wished he could have found a way to validate bringing a firearm onboard, Han's hand subconsciously twitched to the side of his chest, where he'd worn one concealed in the past. Beside him the kid glanced over, frowning just slightly. Looking to deflect any worry onto something else, as the kid had taught him, Han turned the hand-twitch into a slide over to his own stomach, churning with nerves, and tried, "Too much caf, last night. I can't believe you're not the same?"

Luke looked at him, and if ever he'd seen a look that had encapsulated the kid's knowledge that he was being fed an avoidance, this was it. But he didn't know what it was an avoidance _for_, Han reminded himself.

Kid held his eyes for a second longer, then turned away with a quietly murmured, "No, I'm fine."

Luke's own discomfort about last night meant that he was giving Han a bit of extra leeway, he knew. Maybe he was ill at ease at what he'd admitted, and thought that was why Han was avoiding him today. Normally Han would have tried to reassure him, but right now, he had to use it. He had to. Had to buy those extra seconds of distance…

_Don't think about it—any of it. Think about something else._

He hadn't expected to be sitting next to the kid for this long, hadn't expected to have to hold out. Why the hell wasn't it working? Luke turned again to look at him, and Han pursed his lips and looked quickly away, then scolded himself for doing so; act natural. Think about something else…his eyes scanned the shuttle for something—anything—but all he could think was how the hell the kid was still standing. His only ray of hope was that at least Luke's knowledge of his own deliberate overdose of spice last night would mean he'd probably attribute any nausea to that.

As the shuttle came to a precise stop in the bay of Palpatine's Destroyer, Han was beginning to wonder whether his note warning Leia to have a medic standing by when they got Luke over to the Rebel ship, just in case he really had seriously overdosed the kid, may have been more than a tad premature…when Luke's hand moved unknowingly to his stomach, and Han began to hope…

His automatic instinct was to ask Luke if he was okay, but he bit down on it, instead turning to look out of the viewport to his other side, forcing his attention there. Beside him, Luke took a deep, unsteady breath, and Han watched the kid's reflection in the bulkhead as he brought his hand up, tilting to rest his forehead against it. A few seconds later he straightened, bringing his hand back down to his stomach before he stood, eyes on the releasing door. For a second Han panicked that the kid may not even make it out of the shuttle, which meant that Indo and the pilot would still be here. What did he say—how did he get rid of them? The pilot might be wearing a blaster—there was definitely one in the cockpit, Han knew…

The door slid up smoothly as the ramp auto-lowered, and despite earlier having hoped the kid would pass out on the shuttle for Plan A, Han now prayed to damn near every deity he'd ever heard of, that they'd make it out.

It must've worked, because they actually made it clear of the bay and split off from the pilot to head down two corridors before Luke slowed to an unsteady stop. Too guilty, Han had already stepped quickly in before Indo had even turned. "You okay, kid?"

Luke stared…and slow awareness dawned on his face as a look of confused betrayal. "…Han?"

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It had been, Luke realized, a surprisingly long time before he began to put it all together. Perhaps because his thoughts had begun to drift long before he'd recognized why, until they were too diffuse to maintain a line of thought. It was only when the muscles of his neck relaxed past holding, making his head roll loosely for a moment, that distant comprehension buzzed; Ruby spice. Too much. Even then for a second he didn't speak out, rising to walk out of the shuttle in search of fresh air and thinking it a flashback from the previous night, as he sometimes got when he'd taken too much…but it didn't pass over—in fact, as he walked down the corridor to the turbolifts, it got worse.

He staggered to a stop as the first real wave rolled over him, limbs weakening as his thoughts grew ever more scattered, the effects tumbling through his system, gathering speed and power alarmingly now. Not Ruby; something more—something stronger. He blinked, trying without even realizing it to call the Force to him and process the drugs out of his system… But the spice was doing what it had always done so well in interfering with his ability to focus the Force, so that he floundered, outstretched hand pawing for the wall to steady himself as reality dropped away—or was it only his failing senses, which made the floor dip and the walls crawl.

Beside him, he was aware of Han speaking—but distantly, as if his brain could process no more and had left the words as vague, amorphous sounds at the edge of his awareness. He turned, and the corridor swam and shuttered, making him stagger to the side as it slewed.

Why was this happening, how had he possibly…?

Maybe it was the Force, maybe it was simple memory—more likely it was the tamped-down guilt in Han's voice that made Luke think of the bittersweet caf that he'd drunk a half-hour ago as he stared at— "Han?"

Would he do that? Why?

Luke made a grab for his sleeve as Han stepped in. "Did you…" The corridor pitched wildly as Luke's head swam, his half-formed question barely audible over the rush of his own blood, singing in his ears as his heart pounded against the pull of the drugs.

"I got you…I got you, Luke, you're all right." Han's words were shot through with concern and reassurance…and with knowledge. Not panic; knowledge.

Luke stared, but the moment was slipping beyond any control now, and he felt his legs give as a profound heaviness came over him. Han was instantly there to take Luke's weight as he crumpled, lowering him gently to the ground as he crouched with him, Luke still staring at his friend.

"You…" It was the last thing he said, the last thing he realized, before the drugs dragged him down to silence.

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Han stared, heart pounding as the kid murmured, "_You—"_ But Luke's head had rolled as his legs gave and Han moved quickly to take his weight, easing his unconscious frame to the ground.

Indo was quick to step in, as ever. "Luke…Luke?"

"He wasn't well last night," Han said, sticking by his plan as relief rushed through him.

Indo raised inscrutable eyes to Han. "I know that he took spice last night."

Han bit back on the desire to say that Indo knew because he had been the one who'd had enough of it stored in his quarters that Luke'd been able to do what he'd done—but now _really_ wasn't the time for that argument.

"Do you know how much he took?" Indo prompted coolly—and Han saw his chance, knowing that Indo would suspect the truth.

"Too much—way too much. He overdosed. I got him to walk it off, but he's probably still pretty fragile." It was actually the truth—and it fired another burst of panic in Han, that he'd just topped the kid up again with the spice and sleeping tablet cocktail this morning.

Indo was already lifting the comlink from his belt. "I'll comm medical—have someone…" He paused as his comlink sounded an incoming chime. Straightening slightly, he answered—and Han had never been more grateful for that impassive veneer of calm. "Yes?"

It was Pestage, his voice easily recognizable to Han, though he couldn't make out the words.

"I understand." You had to hand it the Viscount; even now, eyes on Luke, unconscious on the floor, he was the embodiment of cool composure. "Unfortunately, there has been an incident here wh—"

The comlink cut, Pestage apparently not interested in excuses. Indo remained silent for a moment, eyes remaining fixed on Luke, genuine concern tightening his features. "We are now late for our audience with the Emperor."

"You go." Han grabbed at the unexpected opportunity to get his plan back online, even though they were onboard the _Conqueror_. "Make our excuses, explain what's happened. I'll comm a medic and stay with him. Get him to a medibay and let you know where we are and what's goin' on."

Indo hesitated a moment longer, but Han had been here long enough by now to know that you didn't make your excuses to the Emperor by comlink; you damn well spoke to him face to face. One of them had to go, and Han was betting that with his hand forced and this kind of excuse to make, Indo would rather it be himself.

"I'll explain Luke's absence and then come immediately to the medicenter," Indo obliged. "Leave a message on my comlink telling me which one you've been taken to as soon as possible."

"Right." Han nodded, taking his own comlink out to open a channel. Indo waited a moment longer, forcing Han to actually start the call to the medibays, before the Viscount turned and hurried off.

Someone was already on the line by the time he'd rounded the distant corner.

"This is medical—state the nature of your emergency."

"Uh…sorry, accident. Not, you know, medical accident, I just commed you by accident."

"Sir, do you have a medical emergency or not?"

"No, fine, we're all fine here, thanks. We're good… You?"

The line clicked closed, and Han let out a breath; he really was no good at that kind of thing. Glancing around, he remembered the deal that this was heading towards, and pulled the second comlink he was carrying from his internal pocket, checking yet again that the channel was already set before activating it. Standing, he opened the nearest door—a tech junction for the landing bay beyond—and put the comlink down at the back of the lowest shelf. Then he stepped quickly out, glancing both ways down the deserted corridor before he bent to ease Luke up enough to heave him over one shoulder, head lolling against Han's back. Straightening, Han lifted him easier than expected—kid weighed nothing—then headed back for the docking bay, praying he didn't meet anyone on the way, 'cos even he couldn't come up with a viable excuse for this one.

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It hadn't gone well—but then Indo hadn't for a moment expected it to. Having made, with careful words and conciliatory assurances, his formal explanation to the Emperor regarding Luke's failure to attend, Indo had been summarily dismissed in the tersest terms, with orders to return immediately with his charge. It wasn't uncommon; illness and injury had never constituted valid reasons for failure to attend a summons, though they would generally buy a period of grace, as they had today.

Solo still hadn't commed however, and though the Emperor was presently distracted by Lord Vader's arrival, Indo knew that if he couldn't supply a revised meeting time on demand, then more specific questions may begin to be asked as to the reasons behind Luke's present condition. Still, he walked calmly from theCommandBridge, slowing as he reached the corridor beyond.

They had been close to the docking bay when it had happened; level eighteen. That would be medibay six. He commed it, to receive immediate acknowledgement.

"Medical."

"I'm enquiring as to the condition of Commander Antilles. He was recently admitted to your bay."

"Sorry, Sir, we've had no admissions today, as yet."

Indo frowned. "He was on level eighteen."

"No, Sir."

"I see. Thank you."

Indo's calm features fell to a momentary scowl, but two senior Bridge officers walked past, and so he set off down the corridor at an even pace, ordering his own expression to neutral. It would be, as ever, best to try to play this new anomaly down. For privacy, he walked into the turbolift, and in doing so it occurred to him that Luke could possibly have been brought directly up to the Command medibay, at the very base of theCommandTower—in fact, strictly speaking, Luke's Ubiqtorate rank should require that. He keyed for that level, then tried to comm Solo; wherever Luke was, Solo should be with him.

No answer. Indo ground his jaw, freshly frustrated at the man's complete inability to follow even the simplest order.

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The good thing about having a shuttle that was registered to taxi around Ubiqtorate officers, Han realized, was that they pretty much got to set down wherever the hell they chose in any landing bay. Their own shuttle's pilot—bless him for being so lazy—had put their shuttle down about as close to the secondary crew entrance as he could reasonably manage. Maybe he'd needed the 'fresher?

As it was, still holding Luke's unconscious form, Han sidled up to the bay entrance, glanced about once, then walked straight over, up the open ramp and into their empty shuttle without pausing.

Inside, he lowered the kid down, loose-limbed, onto a chair. Standing, eyes already on the open cockpit, he was three steps away before on impulse he turned back to take the military comlink from the breast pocket of the kid's uniform and throw it onto the table opposite, well out of reach. It skittered across to fall off the far end and onto a chair. Setting off, he paused and turned back one more time to reach round and pull free the lightsaber Luke also wore from the rear of his belt, figuring that if he was gonna deprive the kid of one thing when he woke up in several hours' time, on a Rebel ship and _seriously_ hacked off, it should probably be the latter.

Abandoned on the table, the saber rolled in a small half-circle as Han reached out to activate the shuttle's door seal before he made for the cockpit a third time. He almost stopped one last time to retrieve the lightsaber, figuring that it should probably be further away than the far table long before Luke woke up…like out the airlock, once they were spaceside. Yeah…plus the blaster stored in the cockpit—that should go before the kid woke up, too; first job, when he was out of the docking bay. He turned, striding quickly into the cockpit, thoughts running through the preflight and startup on a Lambda-class shuttle from memory. He hadn't done a lot of shuttle flying, but he knew the routine…and as an ex-pilot, he still knew enough about how a Destroyer's docking bay worked, to play the numbers.

"Flight Control, this is crew shuttle nine-nine-five from the _Relentless_, requesting permission to disembark."

"Nine-nine-five, hold, please." The voice was routine and bored and—mercifully—human.

"Uh, Flight, any chance of a bump-up? I got a Ubiqtorate commander on here, and he doesn't like waitin' around. Kinda' already chewin' my ear." Han spun the yarn knowing that no non-comm liked Ubiqtorate—and common enemies made instant friends.

"Yeah? Tell him at least we know how to work to recognized protocols," the voice came back dryly.

"Don't tempt me," Han replied, tone that of total agreement and camaraderie. "C'mon, cut me a little slack here, or the guy's gonna be in my cockpit in a minute."

There was a brief pause…then Flight came back on. "You're cleared for exit, Nine-nine-five. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Way, _way_ too late, my friend," Han grinned, as he flicked off the comm channel.

The engines whined as they came online, and Han input the co-ordinates that Leia had provided him from memory—barely outside of the Drydock's standard surveillance perimeter he noted, but hopefully they wouldn't have to hang around too long. He'd just made the fundamental error of reflecting that this had actually been a lot easier than he'd thought, when the console flickered a warning light to signal the shuttle door's open status.

Han rose with a curse, wheeling about to head back through the small passenger hold...

Luke was gone.

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First thing he did was look to the table to his right, and feel his chest constrict; kid's saber was also gone.

A slurred sound snapped his eyes up to the open hatch, just in time to see the hand still clutching at its edge for support, disappear. Running forward without even thinking, Han reached out in a lunge and grabbed at the kid's wrist, yanking him back inside. Unprepared, Luke practically fell backwards into the shuttle, grasping for the far side of the hatch as he scrabbled to keep his feet under him.

Han backed two hasty steps up, one hand still hold of the kid's arm, the other held out in a conciliatory gesture, and it wasn't until the motion turned Luke around that Han saw just how spaced out the kid still was, barely upright and blinking rapidly as he struggled against Han's hold, almost falling backwards as his free arm grabbed for anything to steady himself. Still, he had the wherewithal to make an accusation. "It was you, wasn't it? It was…"

He broke off, staggering a few steps, and Han risked a sideways glance out into the bay, but saw no one.

Luke's eyes narrowed dangerously, voice hoarse and low as he looked to Han's hand about his wrist. "Let go."

"Wait! You go back now and you're dead, understand?"

The slightest tilt of his head seemed to change Luke's whole stance to aggressive as he stared for long seconds. "The question is, why do you, Han? Why do you think that—because it _is_ what you're thinking right now."

Han leaned back slightly, wondering how much control the kid had of his abilities. Luke glanced back to his arm where Han still held him, expression deadly serious. "I think you should let me go."

"Listen to me—Luke, you're sixteen, you have your whole life ahead of you. Everything that's gone, your whole past, you've lived for Palpatine—answered to him for every single action. You go back now, and you make that your future too. Do you really want that? Do you want to make that your entire life?"

"He _is_ my life!"

"No, he's not. He's made you think that—made you afraid to think anything else—but it's not true! Luke, you don't owe him anything—you sure as hell don't owe him a single speck of loyalty. Even if you both somehow survive, _you're_ still dead, because he still owns you."

Luke staggered another step back, looking as if he might keel over any second as Han pushed on, not knowing if any of this was getting through to the kid.

"We made a mistake, Luke. We both made the same mistake. With the best of intentions, we both made an oath to serve someone we thought we could follow. Someone we wanted to believe in. We were wrong, okay? We were _both wrong_. And there's no shame in admitting that, nothing wrong with going back on an oath we made when we were too young to know any better. There's no dishonor in that…but there is in staying, when you realize it's wrong—and you do know it's wrong."

Luke lifted his chin, but Han knew him better than the outward show of refusal, so shook his head, pushing on. "_I _know it's wrong…and I know you're a smart kid, so you must know it too."

Kid was leaning against the bulkhead to keep himself upright now, weaving. His hand pawed for the back of a chair in search of support, and Han took another step forward, mind rushing with whether he could get close enough to make one good swing to put Luke out…hells, one good push might do it. It occurred to him only now that the kid who'd once thrown him across a palace hallway for barely touching his shoulder, had moments ago let Han grab his wrist and yank him bodily back into the shuttle with barely a reaction, so out of it was he.

"Luke, we can leave—right now, we can both leave, understand? This is it. We can fly out of here right now." Han took a half-step forward. "You love piloting, I know that. You said yourself you wanted to be a pilot—this is the opportunity! We get out of here now, and you can do that."

"…How?"

"With theAlliance. They'll protect you, they—"

"The Rebellion!" Luke stumbled an unsteady step as he straightened in indignation, the drugs still pumping through his system, just narrowly held at bay.

"You said you'd never get beyond Palpatine's reach…well this is it! This is the way. They've guaranteed your safety, all you have to…"

"You think I would _ever_ help the Rebels?"

"What's the alternative? Stay here, with that son of a nek? After all you said, after what he did to Bail and Breha Organa, and why! How can you even be near him?"

"Because…" The kid lost his momentary bluster as he blinked quickly, shaking his head and staggering again from the drugs as his voice dropped. "Because he's…he's given me every chance—he's given me life itself." There was desperation and confusion all wrapped up in his words, the kid about as close to losing it as Han had ever seen him, because he knew, he _knew_ that he was wrong…but he couldn't let it go. Palpatine had seen to that.

"No," Han said emphatically. "He's given you _this_ life. But you don't like this life, you don't like the person you've become for him—don't even try to tell me that you do. The yellow-eyed bastard's lied to you and used you and—"

"You don't know…! Y…" Kid nearly went over, and Han took a fast step in, aware that this was taking too long—that Flight Control would be comming back any minute to question the delay…

Luke caught himself, his words still slow and slurred, the concentration required to string them into sentences, never mind a cohesive argument, visible. "I know you think he controls me—I know that. But…look." He reached out to grasp the sleeve of Han's outstretched arm, so desperate was he to get his message across, erratic thoughts reeling from the drugs so that for once, he simply said what was in his thoughts, unchecked. "Just…just look at what I did when I had the responsibility of making those decisions for myself. You know what I did to my own parents—you know that! I can't be trusted with that kind of responsibility, ever…look what I did!"

"No, you didn't—" Han broke off in frustration, knowing that Palpatine had spent too many years driving home Luke's culpability in his parents' death, so that the kid believed it absolutely now. "That's Palpatine putting thoughts in your head. They would have died anyway, you said that…remember? It was an impossible decision. Palpatine knew that when h—"

"I know that—I already know that!" Luke yelled the words, driven to distraction. He'd spent years thinking about this with no one to talk to, a kid trying desperately to pull some kind of logic out of all that had happened and all he'd been repeatedly told. Lies shaped into beliefs that he must have tormented himself with for a decade. "But if I'd done all that Palpatine had taught me in the years leading up to that moment—if I'd learned not to care…" He quietened, faltering, resigned. "I could have done it. I could have said a name. I could have saved one of them."

"Luke, nobody could—nobody."

But the kid wasn't listening, shaking his head in self-censure. "And I still haven't learned—look at me now, look at the mess my life is in because I'm _still_ trying to master that one simple thing." He looked to Han, eyes pleading. "And until I do…I can't trust my own judgment, understand?"

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place in that moment—the final hold that Palpatine had ground into the kid, the final fear that Luke had always held back from admitting. And now he'd said it, all the facts strung together and made perfect sense—or could be made to, for someone who'd lived the kid's life. All those times—all those times when Luke had tried so hard to avoid having responsibility placed on his shoulders. Even when Palpatine had ordered it, he'd tried so hard to work around it…because he believed absolutely that he couldn't be trusted to make the right decision; that the results would be disastrous. Would cost lives, as they had done when he was a kid, forced into that impossible decision.

All these years Indo had been pushing him forward, and every time he made the smallest mistake, Palpatine had dragged Luke back to that moment, that perceived flaw, forcing and reinforcing that lesson to abdicate autonomy again and again; never trust his own judgment—if he did, people died. Every time. Far safer to relinquish that control, look to his Master, always do what his Master said. A vicious little circle that he'd never break free of—worse, he'd be terrified of even trying, already irrevocably scarred by the time he was eleven, with the weight of his own parents' deaths heaped on his shoulders; the profound judgment that Luke had hung over himself for so long now, led on by Palpatine. Their secret; don't tell anyone, don't say it out loud or try to work through it, just let it sit and fester in silence year on year. Han felt the breath leave him as something between a gasp of realization and a growl of open rage, that the old man had spent years pummelling this mercilessly into the kid, to control him.

Luke shook his head, absolutely sure—and why wouldn't he be? He'd had it ground into him his whole damn life. "If I'd done what he said in the first place…."

"What? If you'd've done what he'd said, then what? They'd both still be dead, because you wouldn't have cared! It was a test you couldn't win, can't you see that?"

Luke retreated until his back hit the shuttle's bulkhead as his hand lifted, his words half-plea, half warning. "Just go—now. I know you want to...go!"

He turned quickly, intending to leave the shuttle—to walk out of there and give Han his chance—but Han lurched forward, grabbing the top of his sleeve. "No!"

Luke yanked free and snapped about, falling back against the shuttle wall as Han put both his hands out in a calming gesture, voice level but loaded with absolute determination. "I told you, I won't just turn around and walk away—ever."

The kid remained still, staring at Han with his back against the wall…and slowly, the desperation in his stance and his demeanour seemed to level out. "I remember that." He straightened slightly, and there was something in his stance that made Han brace. "You always said that I'd have to walk out on you, because it was the only way you'd ever leave. Well, this is it, Han. If you stay, Palpatine will kill you. I can't protect you any more—not now. So this is it…this is me walking out."

Luke's hand, still held out loosely before him, turned palm upwards as it lifted, fingers splayed—and Han realized and set forward, shouting out a "_No!"_

He made it less than a step before something reached inside of him and flared bright white so that he fell in a loose-limbed tumble, head swimming. And somewhere, in some distant corner of his mind as the darkness curled in like dense smoke, he heard the kid's voice one last time.

"I'm sorry, Han. Didn't you always know it'd come to this… I told you, I let everyone down, eventually."

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The _Manta_ came out of hyperspace to the edge of the Corsin system, four thousand clicks from Imperial Drydock IV. Ahead of Leia, the familiar hammer-headed form of the stolen Imperial corvette _Blade 5_, rechristened the _Ram_ in a lighter moment, had exited just seconds earlier on its first and last voyage, the fate of the mission—of the galaxy itself—travelling with it.

It seemed so small to Leia, who stood on the bridge of the clam-fronted Mon Cal light corvette _Manta_, staring past it at the distant specks of Corsin Drydock, where Palpatine himself resided—among nine Star Destroyers. Where Luke and Han also resided—or were hopefully already free, heading towards the agreed pickup point. Chewie would be preparing to launch his heavy scoutcraft from the _Manta's_ starboard hangar right now, heading for the rendezvous two thousand clicks out. The _Manta _would travel only a further thousand closer to avoid long-range scans, and the _Ram_…the _Ram_ would go all the way to Ground Zero. In fact the _Ram_ was Ground Zero. Crammed with explosives, and with a tech crew flying over to her now to deactivate her hyperspace system and reroute its power to her quantum shields, as all other systems onboard had been. All she needed now was a target….

Captain Berg, a Togruta who stood almost two meters tall with his distinctive black and white banded montrals, dropping down like striped lekku over his shoulders and growing up like horns to either side of his head, turned to Tactical. "Drones out?"

"Out, Sir. Waiting for signals."

It was too risky to get any closer themselves to perform scans, but three drones were already powering forward to their positions, to relay tactical information.

Berg's all-black eyes went to his Comms operator. "Scan on the agreed frequency… anything?"

Tinney, small and wiry and absolutely fearless, pressed against the speaker in his right ear as his hand keyed frequencies. Everyone stared, the tension pressing in on Leia where she stood beside Berg, desperately hoping Han had pulled through for them—and for Luke…

"Got it!" Tinney declared triumphantly, almost standing from his seat. "Got a clean signal…sending it to Tactical, now."

"Transmit the location to the techs, onboard the _Ram_."

"We're getting long-range scans from the drones, Sir." The pale yellow-green Twi'lek at Tactical lifted her head.

"How many Star Destroyers?"

"Nine Star Destroyers, all Imperial-class save for one Vindicator-class. Plus four DP20 frigates and three CR70's, Sir." She kept her voice level and composed, but that was a blow to all of them. They'd come here with just two ships: their own Mon Cal MC10 light assault craft, just a quarter the size of any one of the aggressive Imperial DP20's, and the _Ram_, which wouldn't be a whole lot of help in a tight corner since aside from its shields and its maneuvering thrusters, it had not a single other system hooked up, neither armaments nor targeting—and they intended to blow it up, anyway. There were five other Rebel heavy frigates waiting outside of the system, including _Home One_, but the idea had been to get the _Ram_ in quickly and quietly, slipping past a far larger enemy force to do its job, before the Rebel fleet came in to mop up. The _Manta_ was simply here to transmit ongoing reports to the waiting battle group and provide support for the _Ram_ from its two fighter wings, if necessary . If it all went wrong, considering the amount of Imperial firepower in the vicinity, the _Manta_ would doubtless suffer the same fate as the _Ram_.

But it wouldn't, Leia decided firmly, tightening her jaw. This would work—it _would _work. So why did she feel this nagging sense at the back of her thoughts, making her brace, as if for an incoming blow?

"Full scan is in from the drones, Sir." Lessa raised her head, her flicking lekku betraying unspoken nerves.

"Put it up on the screen," Berg ordered.

And there it was, in bright outlines highlighted red, for threat; Drydock IV, bristling with armaments and hemmed by an armada of heavy assault craft…all to protect one man. The man they'd come here to kill.

Berg stepped closer, eyes on the screen. "Can we overlay the signal on our scan yet—get a target for the _Ram_?"

"We need a little longer for the drones to triangulate, Sir, then we'll have our target."

The _Ram_ was increasing its distance from the _Manta_ now, and everyone here knew that the techs needed to set the course and get out of there before it came under the long-range scans of those multiple Star Destroyers.

Lessa jolted just slightly in her chair, her alarm blaring like a claxon within the Force. "Sir, the target Destroyer—it's set between two others. We have no direct line of flight!"

It was so obvious—and completely overlooked, in the greater plan, Leia knew. To get the _Ram_ as close as possible, they'd selected an Imperial CR90 similar to the _Ram_ which routinely used Corsin drydock, then cut a faked set of matching ID's and transponders to furnish the _Ram_ with—and in doing so had locked themselves and the _Ram_ into the Imperial ship's routine approach course. But that had never mattered when the massive drydock had been the intended target; would always be visible and viable, no matter what the incoming angle of the _Ram_. In the rush to pull this offensive together, they had overlooked the fact that a single Destroyer, unlike the Drydock itself, might not offer the same, always clearly-targetable objective.

"Can we change the _Ram's_ inbound course to allow for it?" Captain Berg asked.

"It'd need a huge deviation, Sir—almost eighty degrees—then we'd need to re-level it close in. Plus it would mean that the _Ram_ was approaching from an unsanctioned course. I mean, it's possible to recalculate the inbound flight path, but I don't think…" The Twi'lek trailed off, as all eyes went to the forward viewport, where the _Ram_ was already becoming one more speck in the distance, still powering inexorably away on sublight. Leia paused, and stepped forward. "Just how good are the _Ram's_ shields?"

Captain Berg turned…then looked quickly back to the viewport, his striped montrals swinging aside. "It would slow it," he reasoned, already understanding. "Tinney, get the head tech on the line, now!"

"Does that matter if it slows?" Leia asked. "It would be too close to the targetby then for any other Destroyer to risk firing on it."

"Sir, I have Ordaz on the comm," Tinney said of the head Tech.

"Ordaz, we have a problem—but we think we have a solution," Berg offered. "You have a Star Destroyer in between the _Ram_ and its target, docked in parallel beside it…if we actually set the _Ram_ to collide with the first Destroyer's bridge, will it be able to plow through with its shields intact, to trigger the explosives on contact with the second, target Destroyer?"

"You want it to ram a Command Tower and get completely through it?" The undisguised incredulity in the tech's voice was clear even over comms. "There's no…there's no computation model even close to those kind of parameters. You're off the page, there."

"Best guess," Berg pushed, his faith in his fellow soldiers shining out.

"Hold on," There was the murmur of multiple voices, too distant for the pickup to transmit, before Ordaz came back on. "We think…yeah, we think there's sufficient power for the shields to hold. That's not so much a calculation as a general view. The only danger is that the _Ram_ might shift off-course on its way through, but if they're docked side by side, the Destroyers are close enough that it shouldn't matter. We'll need the exact distance between the two ships, to reset the deactivation of the quantum shields so that the explosives trigger on the second impact, not the first. You're going to give the second Destroyer a hell of a warning though—easily twenty or thirty seconds."

Berg looked to Leia…and in a burst of disconcerted shock, she realized how many other eyes were on her, right now. For the first time, she was the one they were looking to for insight. Always before, it had been Obi-Wan who had taken responsibility, made the call.

But this was what he'd trained her for—this was what she'd always been heading towards, she'd known that. The memory of his steadfast faith galvanized and centered her in the moment, and she pushed past her own insecurities down and into the void, searching instead for answers…and recognized that same sense that had imbued her before; that this would work—it _would _work. But just as before, a deep fear followed and gripped her, tensing her shoulders and clenching her stomach to tinge her certainty with an unknown quantity—a volatile, precarious edge.

Opening her eyes, she looked into the glassy depths of Captain Berg's…and nodded once.

He turned immediately. "Make the changes—input them now, and get out of there. Tactical, get ready to pick them up. Helm, set a course to intercept their shuttle on its return flightpath, then get us back to four thousand clicks. This is it, people—we're on."

Leia pursed her lips, intensely nervous, then let out the breath she'd unconsciously held. Because something else had stirred in the void as she'd melded with the Force, something brooding and potent. Sith power. She pulled her senses back and wrapped a cloak about her presence, closing her eyes for a second to complete the act. They surely couldn't sense her from here…but she should take no chances. The _Manta_ had to be here of course, to be able to react as the situation unfolded, as they just had done, but even though they'd remained well outside of any mechanized scanning system's maximum range, there were other, more potent methods of detection. No Sith rose to and held power without having an exceptional survival instinct.

They would, she reflected with renewed determination, test that today.

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The turbolift opened its doors at the very base level of the Command Tower, where it joined the bulk of the Destroyer's hull, and Indo stepped out into a relatively quiet corridor. Aside from the Command medibay, there was little that was accessed on a regular basis in this stretch of corridor, a good deal of its space being taken up by the secondary Bridge, which remained unused whenever the primary Command Bridgewas operative. So he slowed, taking advantage of the empty hallways; wherever Luke was, it would be best if Indo tracked him down in private. Particularly since he should be with the Emperor.

Halfway down the empty corridor, he entered the medibay and glanced about, taking in the silence of the main foyer and the lack of sentient personnel, which generally meant that the bay was unoccupied.

A 3-1B medical droid straightened attentively. "Good morning, Sir. Please state the nature of your complaint?"

"I'm trying to trace Commander Antilles. A medical team picked him up this morning on level eighteen, near docking bay three."

"I'm sorry, Sir, we have had no admissions for two days." The droid tilted just slightly forward. "Would you like me to check the database? His rank warrants admittance here, but if his situation required it, Commander Antilles may have been admitted to a medicenter nearer to the incident to receive immediate care."

Indo hesitated, not particularly wanting to have a search logged in the ship's main database, where others could view it. But with Solo not answering his comms, he had little alternative. "Yes, please do."

The droid paused, its stillness indicating that a program was running… "I'm sorry, Sir, but no one of that name has been admitted to any medibay, or received any treatment today."

"He passed out…"

The droid tilted its head a fraction more, synthetic voice laced with indulgent patience. "I'm sorry, Sir, no one of that—"

"Thank you." Indo turned about, silencing the droid as he left the medibay.

In the corridor outside he stopped, uncertain what to do. If Solo hadn't taken Luke to a medicenter, then…? Perhaps Luke had come round sufficiently to refuse. But then where was he? And surely Solo had the sense to insist that they stop, and to comm Indo anyway?

Again, he tried Lieutenant Solo's comlink; nothing. Freshly annoyed at the man, he commed security. "This is Viscount Indo. Perform a shipwide sweep and tell me the location of Lieutenant Solo, please."

He waited, just one step short of tapping his foot.

"Sir, we have no present location for Lieutenant Solo."

"No location? What does that mean?"

The unknown duty officer paused, obviously a little put out himself. "We have him registered in the passenger manifest of a shuttle which landed in docking bay three, but according to a search for both his ID locator and his comlink, he's no longer onboard. I have no official log-out point for him, though. Do you wish to raise an official query? I can send out a detail to his last known—"

"No—no, thank you."

Not wishing to initiate the kind of flaggable action which may eventually end up brought to the Emperor's attention, Indo again backed off. Though where Lieutenant Solo had gone was anyone's guess. It occurred to him only now, to try Luke directly. If he was well enough to decline medical help, then he was well enough to answer his own comlink.

He made the call, and waited. No answer. He tried again; no answer. Should he ask for a search for Luke? He was aware that he was beginning to leave a series of queries across the system now; hardly a professional and coordinated front. Perhaps Luke had returned to the _Relentless_? Indo straightened a shade at that. Yes, perhaps he'd felt well enough to decline medical help, and simply returned to the _Relentless_, with Solo in tow.

Still, either or both of them should answer their comlinks if that was the case. Luke perhaps not; he seldom did anyway, even under the best of conditions, but Solo knew better than that. And if that was the case, and they had returned to the _Relentless_, then why hadn't Solo been logged out of the system here? Should he try instead to check whether their shuttle had left?

Lifting his comlink, Indo re-contacted security—and on impulse, change his request. "This is Viscount Indo. Perform a shipwide sweep for the location of Commander Antilles."

That interminable wait, which seemed a little longer every time.

"Sir, I've locked his ID locator as being on the Command Bridge, at present. Do you wish to be put through?"

Indo felt the air leave him in a sigh of relief, though his voice remained casually distant. "No—no, thank you."

He must have felt well enough to continue up to the Emperor's presence. Immediately on the back of Indo's relief, came a flare of fury that Solo had let him. The boy could have been in any state, no matter what he'd claimed—he should have been checked in a medicenter. Indo made to step forward, then paused; if Luke was on the Bridge now, then he would already be in the Emperor's presence, and so for Indo to return there as if he'd only just realized halfway through an audience would appear slipshod and uncoordinated.

Instead, he sent a written message, telling Luke to comm him _the moment _that he was free, and waited in the quiet corridor, intending to accompany his charge into the medibay here himself—apparently the only way to guarantee that he would attend.

As he did so, it occurred to Indo quite suddenly to wonder once again just where Lieutenant Solo was.

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Something…_something_ was edging closer, hidden in the deep, velvet darkness. Standing in the wide span of the room that he had commandeered to the side of the main Bridge, Palpatine rested one pale hand on the thick tranparisteel plate of the viewport, looking out past the _Devastator_ moored to Corsin Drydock just starboard of the _Conqueror_, and into the depths of space beyond. His eyes flicked over the ships of his armada which floated, suspended, in the void. Six formidable Star Destroyers formed an undeviating inner defensive screen, silent and watchful sentinels, whilst the _Relentless _held point in the outer defensive ring, mirroring the _Gauntlet's_ position beyond the far side of the drydock, unseen. About and beyond them the running lights of dozens of smaller military ships moved silently, their courses and business unknown; the small flotilla which surrounded any deep space drydock of this size. They had been sent further out to the edges of the armada, to await their Emperor's departure before they may continue with whatever unimportant business they pursued. All military, of course; this was a Navy drydock, its security unimpeachable…

Yet something stalked in the stillness, sensed only at the very edges of his perceptions, a whisper on the stellar winds.

The boy would have more, he knew. Would be able to spread his senses wider and more acutely, in his Master's service. He would ask him, when he arrived—Palpatine had rejected Viscount Indo's excuses out of hand, and dismissed him with the order to bring the boy back here immediately. He would take no petty avoidances, today.

So when he sensed the boy's presence on the bridge beyond, splintered and diffuse, he turned to wait expectantly…

Antilles entered the room alone, a stagger in his step, his jacket awry, his breathing labored. Pale and visibly struggling, he came to an unsteady stop, neither kneeling nor bowing. Palpatine jerked his chin higher in offense, aware that Viscount Indo had already made claims of illness necessitating the boy's attendance at a medicenter, though that was no excuse for the boy's present actions when… Then he sensed it; the haze which dragged the boy's thoughts to fractured confusion as he swayed where he stood.

"You've taken spice…you've taken spice, and dared to come into my presence when—"

"N-no, drugged."

Palpatine watched coolly, neither stepping forward or offering aid, as Antilles swayed unsteadily. "By whom?"

The boy stared for long moments as he blinked, seeming suddenly reluctant to speak, erratic thoughts groping for an avoidance as he swayed, reaching out to a chair back to steady himself. In frustration he closed his eyes, and Palpatine sensed him try to drag the Force in clumsily about himself in an attempt to further dispel the drugs, but his control was a fractured fragment of its usual precision. His head fell as he let out a gasp of effort, senses spilling out as a barely coherent mental ripple…then his eyes widened as he snapped straight. "Wrong…" His eyes moved past his Master, following that brief flare of outward awareness. Hand clutched tight to the chair back, he staggered a step towards the viewport, all of his attention there, now. "Something's wrong."

Palpatine stared, waiting…but the boy said no more, leaving him to grind his jaw, growing frustrated at this. "Clear the drugs from your system. You know how to do that."

"Too many…"Antilles murmured the words breathlessly, his focus still held completely on the darkness beyond the viewport. "You said it before," he murmured softly. "Something…something stalks, wrapped about with a pitch black cloak."

"Vader…" Remembering his own words to the boy just days earlier, Palpatine's hand came to his throat as he looked not out into the inky void, but at the Destroyer that was moored next to his own on the drydock, its hulking mass eclipsing more distant ships_,_ and deep space beyond. The _Devastator_; Lord Vader's ship.

Palpatine half-turned. "Did he do this to you?" It wouldn't be in his nature, to skulk in such underhanded duplicity…but as the boy had said before, Vader knew all too well that he had no chance of defeating them together.

Antilles still gazed through the viewport as if hypnotized, eyes moving only slowly to his Master. "…What?"

"Vader—does he move against me?" It was so clear, now; becoming more so by the moment, as if falling into place as they spoke.

"Vader…"Antilles stared for too long at his Master, still swaying slightly, struggling to pull his thoughts together. "I know."

Palpatine sensed a flush of fear rush through the boy at his own words, ambiguous as they were. Disbelief that he'd uttered them at all, let alone here. And in its wake a flare of resolve; commitment to follow this through, determination to say the unspeakable—all wrapped about by the erratic chaos of a drugged mind, forcing the boy to cling to the back of the chair to keep himself upright as he straightened with cautious dignity.

"I know that Vader is my father."

Time itself stuttered still in anticipation as the words, tempered by both nerves and bravura, stopped the moment dead, and all of Palpatine's plans and intentions held suspended about this one truth, uttered with grave knowledge of its potential power.

Even as he stared, mind struggling to integrate this unexpected revelation into his greater intentions, he grasped for the first and most obvious escape. "Vader? Rubbish. Utter rot. You know who your genetic father was."

The boy shook his head, nervous, apologetic even…but he held his ground as his body weaved, sure of the facts. "I had blood samples tested."

"Why?" Even as he spoke, Palpatine realized, and the name came out in a snarl. "Kenobi." Even from the grave, the Jedi were still snapping at his heels.

Antilles—Skywalker—lifted his chin, still coming round; dragging himself back to the moment as he sobered at the gravity of his own actions. "It's true, isn't it?"

It crossed Palpatine's mind to maintain the denial…but if it had been Kenobi who had told him, then the boy had lived with the knowledge long enough now to internalize it. Better to move on to a new battleground, take a different tack to regain dominance. He'd held the boy so completely for so very long, now was the test of how deep those controls were set. Because the boy may yet grant him control, Palpatine could see that in his eyes, even without the drugs—could sense it in his desperation. He _wanted_ to believe, to hear from his Master a nobler purpose than simple, cold manipulation…and Palpatine was more than willing to provide one.

"For your own protection, I withheld this. Have I not been everything to you, always? Everything that he could and would never be—the father that he never was. I have raised you, sheltered you, taught you, made you strong. _Everything_ that you are is because of me. If he has been anything at all to you, then is a threat, constant and unapologetic. I have been the one who held him at bay…" Palpatine hesitated, fathoming a way to take vague justifications forward—to turn them to his will and his advantage. So his next validation, when he repeated it, was subtly slanted to a hidden direction—an eventual objective. "Yes, I withheld this…but I would have told you _when the time was right_. When I knew that it would not cripple you, as it does now."

The boy waited in silence, years of ground-in deference, forced isolation and carefully cultivated dependence gaining Palpatine this chance. He took it without hesitation. "I have always done everything in my power to steel you against this moment, knowing that it would come… Because I knew that Vader would feel none of the weakness and hesitation and doubt that you do right now All your life, I have sought to give you the strength to overcome this—can you not see it, in everything I've done?"

Antilles shook his head, lips forming a silent _But…_ Confusion and uncertainty crossed his features as he staggered, drugs still running rife through his system, so that Palpatine could sense the ongoing effort necessary simply to hold them at bay.

"I should have known," Palpatine intoned, pushing forward to his own plan. "I had thought that your test was Indo and Solo, but they're nothing. Pale shadows of your true calling." He shook his head slowly, stepping closer as he fashioned a crooked smile. "I envy you this, child. This opportunity to excel. To know absolutely the moment of your ascension. To recognize and revel in it."

Even without understanding the boy stepped back, apprehensive. "I don't…"

Palpatine reached out to cup the boy's jaw, freezing him where he stood; a subtle threat beneath a veneer of reassurance—and realized in that moment that his own hand was shaking. In anticipation, in agitation, in veiled and muted gratification, as the idea took hold. "This is it, child—this is your test. We all face one moment, one decision which takes us from mediocrity to ascension. From childhood to adulthood. From blue-eyed boy to Sith. I should have always known that this test would be yours—this calling. How many times have I told you, how many times have I pressed home that you cannot hold such a weakness or attachment—that you must always act to remove them? Child, you _cannot_ have this weakness. Do you understand what I am saying?"

He stared, waiting for the boy's drug-slurred thoughts to grasp the meaning of his words…

Antilles' eyes widened as every nuance of the rush of realization played out on his face from slow, wary dawning to a moment of utter horror at the realization of what his Master was saying—what he was asking Luke to do.

The smile twitched again at the edge of Palpatine's lips as he pressed on relentlessly, voice low and persuasive. "Will you take the gauntlet thrown down by fate? Will you step beyond the common, the unremarkable? Beyond the life that you hold now, marred by weakness and turmoil? I know that you're capable in body…do you have the courage, the resolve, the strength of mind? How many times have you asked for this and filled me with pride, in doing so? How many times have I promised it, when the time was right? I grant you your wish, child…take his head."

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It was the quiet, repetitive pips of a program in function that woke Han. He lay where he'd fallen on the floor of the shuttle, the feel of its rumbling deck-plates vibrating up through his jaw and into his already-pounding head.

Blinking the world into hazy half-focus, he realized it was on its side—or rather, he was—and scrambled up in an awkward flurry. Immediately he regretted it, as his legs went from under him for a second, dropping him awkwardly back to the floor. Shaking his head, he made another attempt, hauling himself up by using the edge of the small table. The door to the cockpit was open, and Han stared, bringing a wide starscape into imprecise focus, framed by the rear portside edge of a Star Destroyer as the shuttle powered slowly past at regulation speed. Staggering through to the cockpit, he came to an uneasy, lurching stop as he stared at burnt-out controls. Luke!

He rushed forward, though he could see from the door that it was useless; the sublight propulsion board was ruined, every single toggle or control sheared off just above the console's surface by a wide horizontal sweep with a saber, uneven stumps left where controls and connections should be. At one point the kid had clearly just pushed his lightsaber down through the console to cut out more links, the edges of the uneven hole charred, either by the heat the saber must have generated, or by the flare of sparks from console damage. Han blinked, head still swimming, wondering why the hell Luke had left him stuck on a shuttle crawling under sublight maneuvering thrusters just a few hundred clicks from the armada. His eyes, scanning the useless board, came to the lights to the left of the sublight array, every control cut off with the same efficient surface sweep of a saber. It was from this board that the regulated beeps emanated. For a split second, some distant part of Han's mind registered that it was strange that Luke hadn't just cut a big hole here too, as he'd done with…

The next moment stretched, as he stared at the status lights set into the board, still blinking in unison, still active…then his mind caught up, and he knew what Luke had done—lightspeed! The kid had set a lightspeed course and left the sublight maneuvering thrusters active to get it into position, but scuppered the main console controls, so that Han couldn't make any changes. That precise horizontal sweep that had removed all the surface controls had left the hyperspace couplings intact beneath the console…and they were counting down to engage!

"No-no-no!" He reached forward, trying in vain to get enough of a hold on the wrecked toggles to cancel the sequence, to get any kind of response at all, but it ticked relentlessly down. "Don't you dare, don't you dare!"

With no idea how to stop it, Han pushed his hand through the raw edge of the hole the kid had made in the sublight section of the console with his lightsaber, slicing his skin on the corner of hidden circuit boards underneath as he pushed deeper and to the side, groping about in the general direction of the lightspeed board.

His fingers brushed against wires and actuators, and he grabbed at them to yank them free arbitrarily, making the board spark briefly close to his face; he caught the edge of processor circuits and twisted them loose, dropping them unseen to grab for more— "C'mon, c'mon!"

The engines made that deep, throaty sound that they always took on before a jump, and Han yelled in frustration, dragging more wires free beneath the console, frantic—

And with a broken cough the actuators spun slower and the pitch dropped back as the engines cut altogether. He was still here…he was still here! Han let out a whoop of laughter as he straightened, triumphant…then was forced to catch his weight against the console as the shuttle drifted just slightly to the side, making his stomach lurch.

No engines…not even maneuvering thrusters to keep her level. He'd done so much damage that even they had cut out. He was adrift, in a scuppered shuttle with no engines and no comms…in what was about to become a battleground.

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It took long minutes to lever off the top of the flight console, but what Luke's saber hadn't wrecked, Han's simply grabbing and yanking handfuls of anything he could reach, had. He wasn't going anywhere in this bucket.

Cursing in frustration, he reached to his chest for his comlink—and cursed again, because it was gone. His eyes went to the shuttle's comm board, but it was already blackened by the sweep of a lightsaber. He wasn't contacting anyone for a pick-up anytime soon. Han straightened, rolling his head in frustration at the fact that not only would it be a battleground, but the kid was presently onboard the main target—and Han now had no way to…

The muffled pips of a comlink receiving an incoming message tilted Han's head as he jerked about—and in a flash of triumph he remembered dropping Luke down in the main hold earlier. He ran through into the passenger compartment, twisting the chair opposite the one he'd dropped Luke into away from its table…and there, abandoned and unseen where it had rolled off of the table, ignored, was the first break that he'd had all day: the comlink that he'd taken from Luke.

He grabbed for it, and his first instinct was to comm Luke…then he cursed, in realization that he was holding the kid's comlink in his hand. Staring, he briefly considered comming Indo—had actually begun to input the code without figuring out a word of what to say—before he terminated it, remembering that Indo had gone to speak with the Emperor; not exactly the ideal place for Han to start comming, because if he had no idea what to say to Indo, then he sure as hell didn't know what to say in Palpatine's earshot, and the moment the Old Man suspected anything, he'd have Han dragged back there and pull enough from his mind to condemn both Luke and Han.

He stumbled again as the shuttle drifted awkwardly forward on its own momentum, and turned back to the cockpit to glance out into the depths of space, as if he expected to be able to see the incoming threat even…Leia! He had Leia's comm-code!

Inputting it from memory, Han waited briefly, seconds stretching to intolerable lengths…

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Standing onboard the _Manta'_s bridge, Leia stared out at the receding engines of the _Ram_, set inextricably on its course, and felt again that brief pang of misgiving press in on her.

"Contact _Home One_," Captain Berg intoned, his booming voice equal to his impressive stature. "Inform them of the changes, but that the _Ram'_s inbound, with target acquired."

"Aye, Sir," Tinney said proudly.

Counting his successes a little early there, Leia reflected. The area was thick with Star Destroyers, and the moment it failed to stop at the outer defense perimeter, the _Ram_ would effectively put itself under the fire of every one of them. She was, she knew, being uncharacteristically pessimistic here. She tilted her head in examination…and felt again that cool trickle down her spine; that indefinable portent that tinged her thoughts and dragged them down. As if—

The comlink at her belt chimed, and Leia took a fast few steps to the rear of the bridge as she lifted it to her mouth. "Yes?"

"Leia, it's Han. Where are you?"

Her whole frame tightened at the sound of his voice. "I'm onboard ship, about four thousand clicks away from the drydock. Where are you?"

"Onboard a shuttle, in deep trouble."

"Because?"

A few faces close enough to hear the conversation had turned, but none aside from Captain Berg knew who Han was.

"I don't have Luke."

The whole morning's intangible qualms were compressed into those four words. Leia's head came up and her eyes met with Captain Berg, who nodded just once in permission—and that was all she needed. She turned and walked quickly from the Bridge, walking down the quiet corridor outside.

"Where are you? What happened?"

"Long story. It ends with me being in a scuppered shuttle, stranded just beyond the drydock's outer defense perimeter. I've got no controls, no way to get back, nothing."

"Where's Luke?"

"I'm guessing he's still onboard the _Conqueror_."

"Please tell me that's not the destroyer you left the comlink on?"

The silence was all she needed.

Kicking off on her heel, she set off for the fighter bay of the _Manta_ at a wild run, dashing past as people flatten themselves against the walls of the Mon Cal ship. Occasionally she'd hear Han's voice over the open comlink she still grasped, but all she could manage was a fast, "Hold on," as she ran the narrow corridors at speed.

In the fighter bay, both squadrons—one of X-wings, one of Y-wings, were prepped and warmed up, their pilots waiting in a tense group near the bay's main comms station, monitoring what was going on as they waited to see if they needed to launch. Several glanced up as Leia hurtled in, mind racing; she'd need a Y-wing to carry a passenger…

The shrill, extended warble of an R-2 unit brought Leia's eyes up instantly, to see Artoo-Detoo's dome spinning in recognition of Leia's arrival—and he was in a Y-wing! She remembered instantly loaning Artoo to Corvino, one of Gold Wing's pilots.

"Serri!" Leia barely hesitated, most of her momentum continuing forwards as she glanced to the milling pilots, searching out Serri Corvino. "I need to borrow your fighter!"

Corvino stepped forward, her sense hesitant, torn as any pilot would be at the prospect of losing their ship before they'd even gotten into the battle. "Uhhh…"

"And your helmet!"

Corvino looked to the helmet in her hand, but Leia was already at the steps to her fighter, so the pilot muttered a brief, "Damnit," under her breath as she set forward at a jog. By the time she got to her Y-wing, Leia was already dropping down into the seat.

"_Don't_ trash my ship!" Corvino shouted companionably above the noise, throwing her helmet up as the fighter's twin engines opened up to full-throttle.

The Y-wing wobbled for a second as Leia pushed the repulsor slides to full, rippling the air about it and whipping Corvino's hair up as she backed quickly off to give it room. The hatch was barely sealed before Leia kicked the engines to forward thrust, pressing her back into her seat as her safety harness jangled, unengaged.

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Standing close to the spot where her fighter had been, the Gold Wing pilot straightened, blinking the dust from her eyes as she watched her chance at getting out for this sortie shrink to a speck, before she barked a brief but heartfelt, "Shavit!"

Wedge Antilles, commander of Rogue Squadron, the second Wing assigned to the _Manta_, scratched casually at the two-night's growth of stubble on his chin, having watched the show. "Well, that wasn't at all weird."

Janson, standing close by, considered a second… "I like weird."

"Weird is interesting,"Antilles agreed levelly.

"I like interesting even more," Janson replied.

"Tell you what I don't like," Klivian—Rogue Four—added innocently. "I _don't_ like getting left out of 'interesting'."

The silence remained for long moments, before Rogue Leader glanced to his comrades. At some unspoken cue, they set forward to their ships at a jog, as Antilles pulled on his helmet. "Flight Control, this is Rogue Squadron, requesting permission to launch in support of Jedi Skywalker?"

"Hold, Rogues," Flight replied, "I'll contact the Bridge."

"Great, you do that,"Antilles replied pleasantly, scaling his fighter's ladder. "We'll just be in our X-wings, waiting…outside."

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Still buckling into her harness, her helmet chinstrap unfastened, Leia was already firing up comms and inputting the _Manta's_ Bridge code, keying her comlink with her other hand. "Tinney, this is Gold Six, Skywalker piloting. I need a scrambled conference line between this fighter, the comlink code I'm transmitting to you now, and the Wookiee Heavy Scoutship _Girrah_—quickly!"

"Acknowledged, Gold Six. Hold on…"

The tacking taps of tracer lines connecting sounded down the comlink, then the comms inside her helmet crackled to life as the _Manta's_ Comms officer came back online. "Gold Six, you have an open line to all parties."

"Han, it's Leia." She didn't even pause, though she heard him start to voice a question. "You're on a Rebel frequency, now—a scrambled conference channel with me and Chewie. He's already on his way to pick you up—are you anywhere near your rendezvous point?"

"No, I'm just turnwise of the rear of the _Relentless_, past the drydock's outer defense ring. I can see the _Relentless_ from my cockpit."

"Stay on this line, and mark the frequency on your comlink—we'll start jamming all other frequencies when the _Ram's_ at nine hundred clicks; the only clear frequencies will be Rebel ones."

Chewie's roar came on, loud in Leia's ears. "Did you get that, Han? Chewie's changing course now, but it's going to take him longer to get to you."

"I have no controls," Han came back, frustration evident in every syllable. "I can't operate docking clamps or open hatches—well, I can cut in and gain access straight from the engine's mainframe, but not in the time we have."

Again Chewie's chuntering growls—and he had a good point: "He says you have the emergency exit hatch and a flight suit, don't you?" Leia repeated, grinning. "Can you get shields up?"

"No, I just have navigational shields…well, I think I do, 'cos the shuttle was set for lightspeed."

Leia's heart lurched, at the same time that Chewie let out a long, keening howl; that wouldn't be enough. Immediately, Chewie was back on the line and Leia listened intently, feeling the tightness across her ribcage ease just slightly. "Did you hear that? Chewie says if you're not out, he'll get the _Girrah_ between you and the blast, and try to extend his shields."

"Wait, what blast?"

"We have a vessel incoming right now, a corvette loaded with high explosives. It's about two thousand clicks out, aimed at the target you gave us."

"Corvette?" Han's voice was disbelieving. "It'll get blown to smithereens at the outer perimeter! There's a whole Imperial armada here!"

"It has Shield X quantum shields, an experimental system we stole from the Empire. We've tied two power generators into them and closed down every other system to overcome the power deficit. As long as we can keep on providing sufficient power, the shields _won't_ fail or breach. But we gained that by closing down and cutting out all other systems—we have no control of it, now that it's on-course, and we have no way to splice back into the propulsion systems to slow or change them. It's…the _Ram's_ homing in on the Command Tower of the Star Destroyer you've pinpointed."

"You're gonna blow the Command Tower?" His voice was slower now, tinged with trepidation.

Leia felt her own misgivings drop to a deeper dread, echoing the ominous foreboding she'd felt earlier, on the _Manta's_ bridge. "No, we were originally intending to destroy…we'd already planned this offensive without knowing Palpatine would be here. We've loaded the _Ram_ with enough explosives to blow the entire drydock."

The silence was terrible. "Han?"

"He's not gonna get out, is he?"

"I'll get him out."

"You won't. You think you're gonna just land in the main bay of the Emperor's Star Destroyer and start wandering round, maybe ask a few people where Commander Antilles is?"

"I can find him."

"You won't make it in time—you won't even get out of the landing bay."

There was a dreadful, brutal honesty to the words, and Leia fought simply to breathe against it as it pushed in on her, mind and body both, numbed by the realization; recognition of the truth. "I will," she said breathlessly. "I'll make it."

"And find him? And get him off of there? You won't—you can't. You're not close enough."

"Han…" What could she say? Still burning forwards even though she knew the truth, what could she say—what could she do, but try, even when she knew deep down that every second Luke stayed on the Destroyer now, was a second too long. Every second Leia powered towards it, was already a second too late.

His voice came back with a new solemnity; regret and certainty both. "Sorry…I'm sorry, Leia. You do what you've got to…I gotta do this."

The line shut down, leaving Leia to frown as she pushed her fighter forwards at full throttle, half-terrified of what he thought he could do, half-hoping that it would succeed.

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Palpatine watched dispassionately as Antilles backed up from him, staggering as he did so, hand out to steady himself—and it was not the drugs which held such power over him this time, but his Master's command.

Yet Palpatine didn't back down, though he was appreciative of the irony in the situation. He'd intended to force this very test—a choice between two individuals, only one of whom could be allowed to survive—to push the boy towards becoming a true Sith. Now, a similar choice was visited upon himself, instead. But unlike the boy, Palpatine had found no difficulty in making his decision, ruthlessly weighing the facts to his own advantage.

Because fresh in his mind, twitching the empty smile on his lips to a brief sneer, was the memory of the vision he'd had just days ago, whose words the boy had quoted back to Palpatine just minutes earlier as he'd stared out into the void beyond the _Conqueror'_s viewport: "_Something stalks, wrapped about with a pitch black cloak"._

Palpatine remembered again the dark-cloaked man with murderous intent who had invaded his vision, searching him out. Vader would turn against him sooner or later, Palpatine _knew _that; had seen it—which made the boy the better choice, even though he'd withheld the truth of what he'd learned from his Master. Then again, even knowing it he had remained loyal and tractable. Just how much so, Palpatine intended to test, now.

So he smiled as he dropped his hand from where it pressed with unuttered intimidation against the boy's face, and splayed his fingers to call Antilles' lightsaber, worn to the back of his belt, neatly into Palpatine's outstretched palm. The boy didn't react as Palpatine looked down to turn it in study, considering his words carefully, well aware that though Antilles would never defend himself against his Master's wrath, he may yet try to refuse his command, in defense of another. But he was confident that he could persuade and bully and coerce the boy, as he had done a thousand times before. He knew Antilles well, every weakness laid bare—but then so he should; he had placed them himself, for his own personal use.

So he smiled munificently into the boy's mounting panic. "The last time that I held your lightsaber in my hands you were knelt before my throne, and I gave you the right to wear it always, in my service, because you swore an oath to me. I asked you then if you would sacrifice…do you remember your answer?"

Antilles looked down without speaking, and Palpatine put an edge of disappointment beneath the disgust in his voice. "Is that solemn vow so easily and so quickly forgotten? Do you stumble already, at the very first hurdle? A single, arbitrary fact, the name you choose to give a man who does not deserve such recognition and you know it—have a lifetime of experience to prove it—one single word reduces your vow, your _oath_, to nothing."

The boy swayed, erratic thoughts still stumbling in semi-lucid freefall to Palpatine's perceptive senses, as he pressed on. "A fact is simply a fact," he dismissed curtly. "What you do with it is everything. How many times have you begged for the right to turn on him, for all he's done to you? Were they all just empty words? The bragging bluster of a child, that one simple, arbitrary fact can sweep them aside?"

"He's my…" The boy didn't say it again—couldn't.

"He is your father in name only—a simple twist of fate. I have been all things to you, always. I have been your protector, and you have been my champion. You have promised so much to me for so long, child…will you let that single word stand between us? Don't stumble now. Nothing has changed, save that one word. He is still the man who detests you."

Antilles tensed, wild hope giving him voice. "He doesn't know! If…"

He broke off, already stifled by his own insecurities, and Palpatine smiled slowly. "You haven't told him?" The boy didn't answer—but that spoke more of his insecurities and fears than simple words ever could. Palpatine shook his head slowly, lacing his leaden voice with pity. "And you know why…we both do. Because it will change nothing—that is the truth of it. He will simply have a new name for the object of his hatred."

"But he—"Antilles trailed to silence, afraid to even hope.

And there—_there_ was Palpatine's chance, and he knew it. He stepped closer, tilting his head.

"Your whole life, I've tried to give you the strength to rise above this moment. To use it, and not have it use you—weaken you." He smiled into the boy's anxiety as he fed unspoken fears. "I promise you, Lord Vader will not let it weaken him. His resolve, his beliefs…they will not change. Look at yourself—look at how low this knowledge has brought you. These crude and pitiful needs for childish reassurances are no different from the misapprehensions you held when you first came to me. But now you are older; wiser. You _know_ that such illusions only debilitate and drag you down, now as they did then—_if_ you allow them to."

Only now did he realize what a boon the boy's semi-drugged revelation had been. How long would he have held it hidden, otherwise? How long would it have festered and weakened Palpatine's hold? And now, dazed enough that he'd actually admitted it, his thoughts were still in chaotic confusion. How much simpler to convince him, now—how much easier to lead him.

"Luke, look at me—look at me. I withheld it because this knowledge is a weakness, and you know it. I did this for you—so that you never need carry this burden. Your whole life I protected you from him."

"He didn't know."

"It will make no difference, child."

"If it would make no difference, why didn't you tell him?" The boy straightened slightly, the edge of a genuine challenge in his voice.

"Because _I_ chose not to. How many times have I told you that I will not have your attention divided." The temptation to bellow and beat and shout the boy down was twitching within Palpatine—but he held his temper, because this was better. This way gained him so much more. So he lowered his voice further, persuasive, cajoling. "He would have cared nothing for you, even had he known. Would have used you to serve his own ends. You were a child, alone and desperate for somewhere to belong."

"Because of you!"

"They were nothing," Palpatine upheld dismissively, knowing the boy remained always aggrieved of his role in the Organas' deaths—as Palpatine had intended. "They were random strangers."

"Then why did you kill them?" Anger festered in the accusation, unleashed in the boy's semi-drugged state.

Palpatine resisted the urge to answer with the same, instead letting his voice drop in dour reminder. "It was not I who killed them, child."

Antilles let out a gasp, all boldness instantly knocked out of him, and Palpatine stepped closer, tone so reasonable; apologetic and persuasive. "You cannot make amends for their deaths by fixating on Vader, now. You merely compound your errors. He is nothing to you, child…and you are most certainly nothing to him."

With the boy quietened Palpatine pushed forward, looking to eke incrementally beneath his resistance, bringing every possible control that he had instilled over the years into play. "Luke, you have given so much to gain the strength you now hold—strength of resolve, of loyalty. Show that to me now. Be my champion, my Hand. Make me proud of all that I have done for you…make him finally regret all that he did against you, for so many years."

Still Antillesremained silent, desperate to please but unable to do this, even for his Master…but Palpatine had other persuasions. Because unlike the Master he himself had once turned on, Palpatine had always sought to make sure that he occupied a more complex place.

He wrapped his arms about Antilles' shoulders to draw him into a close embrace as the boy tensed, bringing his arms up to his chest defensively. Palpatine spoke on in quiet, assured tones. "For me, child. Do this for me. I ask this one thing of you, to ensure that you may rise above the inadequate and the derisory and the irrelevant. Rise above all others around you. Does he mean so much to you…or is it simply that I, and all that I have done for you—all that you have promised me over the years—means so little?"

"No." It was said quietly but with certainty, the boy still tense, hands curled to fists and crushed between himself and his Master, but moved by this show of affection. Craving, even now, the one thing that Palpatine had always rationed from himself, and forbidden entirely from any other.

"You need tell him nothing, explain nothing." It was made as an offer of exoneration, the easy path, absolution from all actions. In truth, knowing the boy's reluctance, it was a carefully considered strategy to ensure the optimum outcome.

Because if Vader knew nothing about why the boy initiated the duel, he would be furious; outraged that Antilleshad dared challenged him. Years of ill will would boil to the surface and take over. Vader would react aggressively, seeking a kill, and Antilles would respond intuitively, would fight without holding back, to save his own life. It would escalate beyond the boy's present qualms in moments; be unstoppable in less than a minute. Vader's ignorance would be the fuel that fed his own funeral pyre, because Antilles had the power to bring him down—he had already proven that.

But there could be no knowledge, for that to take place. No revelation on Vader's part, to feed a moment's compassion or hesitation. Secrets had fed Palpatine's rise to power and given him the means to cement it…and even now, exposed, this one could still do the same—with careful manipulation. So he smiled as he took the boy's shoulders, stepping back just slightly to squeeze them in reassurance. "You and I, we are the sole keepers of secrets, child. I have held your own dreadful and devastating mistake silent for years, because all secrets stay between ourselves and no others—ever."

Instead of reassuring and galvanizing him, as they had so many times before, the words only seemed to make him more agitated, as he looked to the side in avoidance.

"You must trust me, child," Palpatine intoned.

Antilles recoiled slightly, the barest tinge of disillusionment in his voice. "…How?"

"All that I have done has been to make you strong…and when I could not, I have held your failures secret."

"Why was it my failure?" It was the first time that the boy had ever asked this—the first time he'd even found the courage to speak of it, leaving Palpatine to wonder briefly where this flare of bravado had come from, even as he moved to instantly stamp it out.

He pushed Luke further from the embrace to arm's length, though he kept his voice sympathetic—for now. "They died because of you. You know that."

Antilles fell back a step, wounded but still fighting. "_You_ killed them—you gave that order."

"No," Palpatine said simply, releasing him. "I gave you the _choice_ on which you failed to act. You let them down, not I."

"I wanted to save them…"

"Are you sure?" Palpatine asked divisively. "That chance was yours, freely given. All you had to do was act."

"You knew—you knew I couldn't!" The boy was gaining boldness now, his voice rising. "You'd already decided to kill them before I was even brought into the room."

"You needed only to say a name…simply speak a name, to save a life." Palpatine straightened gravely, ignoring for this moment the impudence of the boy, the disrespect, instead caught up in the challenge of instating his will. "I tried for four years to teach you, to prepare you. But you did not listen—as you do not listen now."

The boy hesitated, pale eyes searching his Master's. "How can I?"

"Because if you heed all I've said now, as you could not then, it will save a life."

Wary uncertainty filled the boy's eyes. "Whose?"

"Yours, child," Palpatine continued levelly, as if repeating the glaringly obvious. "It is your life I seek to save, yet again. Because you want to confide in him. Blindly, foolishly, you want to trust the man who will most surely destroy you...and you will let him, for no other reason than that of common blood." Antilles took a breath to speak, but Palpatine didn't let him, knowing the boy's argument and bulldozing on through it. "Yes, if you tell him now, he may try empty offers of reconciliation. He might speak of regret and reunion, claiming bonds of blood, and asking for the trust that you know—you _know_ deep down he will decimate and grind to dust, for the pleasure of watching you bleed when he breaks you."

The boy recoiled just slightly as Palpatine stepped forward, aware of the vicious onslaught that Vader had rained on the helpless child for so many years, and smiling sadly into desperate, bewildered eyes. "And the truth, the most terrible truth of all, is that you would let him. Willingly. Even now, after all that I've tried to teach you, you would still lay your soul bare to be shredded and bled one last time by a man who has shown nothing but hatred for you..." Antilles stared, fired by the fear of abandonment that his Master had taken such care to instill, and Palpatine shook his head sadly. "And you cannot withstand that—not again. You think I do not understand you, child, but I know that. It's _that_, I seek to save you from. That most savage of all rejections. But I cannot, you see. Nobody can save you in this, but yourself. It must be you who acts to cut this bond, before it crushes you… It must be you."

He could sense the boy's uncertainty as he fed his fears; sense him waver as panicked doubts fell to uneasy, world-weary acquiescence. It was more the boy's defeat than his own triumph, but Palpatine would take either. Suppressing the grin that came to his lips, he once more held out the saber. Antilles looked to it, but didn't move…and eventually, Palpatine reached out to take his hand, lifting it to slowly open the fingers that had curled closed.

"This is your destiny, understand that. Because Lord Vader would, if you told him the truth. He would realize in an instant that only one of you can survive, only one of you can possibly move forward from this. This was always your destiny…to replace your father—or to die, at his hand. I have toiled for so long to ensure the former…now, it is your turn. This is your duty, your obligation, your right. Yours, alone." Palpatine pressed the saber hilt into the boy's unfurled hand and closed his fingers about it without resistance. Voice barely a whisper as he looked into resigned blue eyes. "Take what is yours…and I will never call you child again."

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Standing in the cockpit of the drifting shuttle, Han had a brief, painfully clear flash-image of sitting in Luke's quarters onboard the _Vendetta_ months ago, hand held expectantly out towards the kid as Luke had hesitantly taken it, allowing Han to shake it triumphantly. He'd thought he'd had it all figured out back then. Believed he'd understood the reasons why the kid was so insular and reticent, that he'd known just what it had taken simply for the kid to reach out and shake his hand… He hadn't even known a fraction. But he remembered his own words as he'd grasped the kid's hand, feeling Luke try to pull free almost immediately. _"We're in this for the long haul. Me and you, pal—till the end."_

Till the end; Han glanced about, frantic, because he knew without a shadow of a doubt that that was what it would be, if Luke stayed on the _Conqueror_.

He was out of options…he was actually this desperate. Lifting the comlink in his hand, he scrolled through its codes, trying to work some moisture into his dry mouth.

After all he'd said of the man, all he'd thought and accused him of, with claims that he'd given Luke nothing but grief, and that an accidental crossing of fate and fatherhood would never change that...this was all he had left. It was a long shot, but it was truly all he had left, right now.

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"What do you want?" Vader's voice was a curt demand, tinged with annoyance that he'd been contacted at all.

"Sir, this is Lieutenant Commander Solo."

"This is Antilles' private comlink. Why are you using it?"

"Sir…where are you, right now?"

"I am onboard the _Conqueror_."

"Are you with the Emperor?" Han hesitated, not knowing how to say it. "Am I free to talk?"

There was a brief pause, and Vader's bass voice tightened as he replied. "I am alone."

"There's…you're in the middle of a Rebel plot to assassinate the Emperor by destroying the _Conqueror._ Sir, I don't have much time—the Rebels will cut this transmission as soon as they realize, but the _Conqueror'_s about to be rammed by an incoming ex-Imperial corvette loaded with high explosives."

"We have shields, Lieutenant."

"The incoming ship is fitted with the prototype Shield X quantum-response system. The Rebels stole it with the intention of using it to destroy the drydock, but now that the _Conqueror'_s here, they figure they've got a better target. You know the Shield X system; its shields can't be overloaded and they won't be breached, even by fire from multiple Star Destroyers. You can't shoot it down, and the _Conqueror'_s shields won't stop it. It'll short through them and impact with the Destroyer's Command Tower."

"I think you overestimate the damage that one corvette will cause."

"It's loaded with enough explosives to blow the entire drydock."

Again the silence stretched, until Vader's voice came back, charged but level. "Where is the Rebel ship now?"

"I don't know, Sir. I only know it's on its way. I have no idea how long you have."

"Why are you telling this to me, and not Antilles?" Distrust was audible in every word of the challenge. "You have your own line of command. Use it."

"Sir, I have Antilles' comlink in my hand, and Indo…last I knew, Indo was with the Emperor."

"Then you will have your information heard by the right person."

He thought this was some kind of ruse, Han realized. "Sir, I…I can't go to the Emperor. It has to be you. You're the only one I can trust, with this."

"Then you are already in difficulty."

"Your son's onboard the _Conqueror_. Right now." Han waited an inordinately long time… "Lord Vader…are you still there?"

"Go on."

"If he stays, he's dead. I was trying to protect him—to get him off. I can't—"

"And why would you help him?" Vader growled in deep distrust. "I know that Antilles holds him captive, and I know your loyalty to Antilles…so why would you help my son?"

"Luke…he's not…he doesn't have your son hidden away somewhere. He _is_ your son."

Again that silence, densely laden this time, with only the regulated hiss of automated breathing to time out its passage… So long that it was Han who finally spoke again.

"Kenobi told him—when Luke went to speak to him, that's what Kenobi told him—then he gave Luke a vial of his blood to have their DNA cross-checked."

"This is Kenobi's manipulations." The dismissal in Vader's voice was menacing—but Han held his ground.

"No, it's Palpatine's. Palpatine knew the day Luke arrived. He changed samples around in those first two days before you got there, to hide the truth. He set all this up because he wanted control of the kid—you can see why he'd want that—" Han broke off, willing Vader to just take that first step.

Silence…

"You had a blood sample!" he practically yelled. "The sample Luke gave you—that was his own blood. He didn't believe Kenobi either, so he gave you a sample of his own blood, to test against yours—that was his own blood!"

"Why did he not tell me this himself?" It was a raw demand, half anger, half incredulity.

"Seriously? Are you seriously asking me that?" It probably wasn't the most sensitive of things to say, but having seen how Vader had treated the kid, Han felt no particular need to hold back. "You want the reasons? 'Cos I can count them with the scars on his body—and those are the ones I can see. I'm guessing there's a whole other set that you imprinted even deeper, over the years—in fact, I know damn well there are."

Again that silence, fraught with unspoken thoughts, and for some reason, Han reined himself back, voice quieting. "He couldn't tell you—how could he?"

"And yet you do."

"Because I'm trying to protect him! If he stays onboard the _Conqueror_, he's dead. I tried to get him off but he knocked me out and put me on a shuttle, then locked out the controls. I can't get back there to—"

"Where was he? How long ago?"

"I don't know…maybe twenty minutes, judging from the distance I am from the _Conqueror,_ and the speed I'm moving. You can get him off the Destroyer. I tried, but I can't. You can. He should…he should be easier to handle. I dosed him up with spice and sleeping tablets to make him—"

"You used drugs…on my son?" There was so much wrapped up in the words, such heat in the accusation, in the claiming of Luke as his own…and Han knew in that moment that he'd done the right thing. Knew that, terse and uncompromising as he was, Vader would protect the kid.

"Get him out. Get him to—" The line tacked, then cut abruptly, leaving Han to curse, trying vainly to reconnect.

That was it, that was all he could do. He was sitting in a tin box while the fates turned the universe inside out about him…and he could do absolutely nothing. He didn't even know if the Rebels knew he'd spoken to Vader and had cut the transmission, or whether the _Ram_ had reached 900 clicks and they'd started jamming everything, as Leia had said they would. Loosing a fresh run of curses, he stared out into space, knowing the direction that the Rebel ship would be coming in from…and for the first time, saw that single, inbound speck.

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Staring into the darkness without seeing, Vader fought to bring his reeling thoughts under control. He had a son…_he had a son_. He'd known for days now—but as a theory, as an isolated, dispassionate fact. He stood stock still in the empty corridor, struggling to fit all of this into the reality that he'd lived with for so long. That he'd struggled through alone, adrift in a hell of his own making, tormented by the knowledge that he'd lost all that he'd held dear.

But something had been saved. Some part of his lost past reached forward and in an instant—in a single instant—changed everything. Tipped the very universe on its side as it buckled and collapsed about him. Memories fired like explosions within; of resting his hand on Padmé's belly to feel his child move, gripped in that moment by something sublimely instinctive and terrifyingly powerful that had rushed through and completed him—completed them. It had changed him, in that moment, long ago. Made him determined to do anything, anything at all, to make it safe for this perfect, complete little unit, this group of three.

But he'd been too young. Too blinkered. Too afraid. And he'd destroyed it—by his own hand, he'd destroyed the very thing he'd sought to protect, and had wandered in a wilderness ever since.

Yet he had a son! Here—now. How had it happened? How had Padmé reached back from the very jaws of death and saved him? Had those same emotions fired in her, to protect that which they had created, at all costs? How—how had she done this?

How had he not known, seeing the boy a thousand times? But then why think to make the connection for even one second when…

Palpatine! Vader's hands tightened to fists, creaking the hide of the black gloves that encased them. The man who had, with such malicious spite and insincere regret, told Vader of the death of his wife and son, seven years later claimed and renamed the boy for his own ends, saying nothing. Given him a new identity and paraded the numbed child before his own father, dangled him so close that Vader could have reached out and touched him at any time—and he had. Many, many times, he'd laid hands on the boy, and never lightly

Reality distorted and distended as every horrific moment replayed, behind closed lids. How often he'd raised his hand to the child, how often he'd grabbed him and shook him like a rag, every backhand blow and vicious rebuke when he'd been forced to teach him. The satisfaction he'd felt to inflict a wound on a boy who was barely old enough to spar; retribution, he'd believed, for his father's sins.

His father's sins…

His own son, he'd done this to—his own son! How lost had he become, that he was capable of this? But he hadn't known; how could he have? The Organas were registered as his natural parents and…and he should have known to look closer, even then. If they were willing to bend the law sufficiently to have themselves named as such, then it was no real surprise that they would also change the boy's birth date to make him seven months younger, to obscure his roots further. When Vader had first known that the boy wasn't theirs, he should have looked closer—should have known that they'd falsify other facts.

Was he so easily led, that when Palpatine had made that one, simple connection to Kenobi, it had blinded him to all else? Had ignited in him a fury which had locked every hostility into place in a single instant, because he'd held Kenobi responsible for Padmé's death…when even then, it had been _he_ who had lifted his hand, once again.

Had he been there in the end, Vader wondered, in a fit of self-flagellation—had Obi-Wan been there, with Padmé? He must have taken her from Mustafar, must have hidden her away in her last days, must have…must have taken Vader's newly-born son in his arms, to have known the truth, when he'd faced Luke. Had he promised Padmé that he would do what his fallen padawan was so patently incapable and undeserving of, and look after the child?

Another cold wave of realization rolled over and through him, that Kenobi had come to the Imperial Palace five years ago not to retrieve his own son, but to rescue Padmé's…from its own father. Risked his life to save the boy whose father had tried to kill him. Given his life…given his life, trying to tell Vader that.

"_For Padmé…"_ The old man's words, when Vader had run him through.

And Luke must have known this—all of it—when Vader had returned to the palace, to throw Obi-Wan's lightsaber at the boy's feet with such relish, using it to try to condemn him by accusing him of conspiring with Kenobi. Had forced his own son, alone and unaided, to pull together a precarious defense before the most critical of audiences, his neck in the noose by his father's eager hand. What must the boy have thought of him, in that moment?

What must he have thought just days later, when Vader had laced misplaced concern with open threats, to a son too afraid to speak the truth. _"If you have injured him…"_

_"Injured?" _The dry, dark amusement in the boy's cynical reply held new meaning, now._ "No, Lord Vader, I'll leave that to you—you make such an art of it."_

He blanched, feeling nausea rise with merciless memories, the regret that gripped him sickening. It compressed like a cold weight within that burned to the back of his throat and compacted in his chest, so that he reached out to lean his weight against the transparisteel of the viewport as it ravaged through him, leaving him weak, heart pounding.

Again Kenobi's words came back to him…but this time, compassionate as the old man was, they offered a tinge of hope—the chance at reprieve that Kenobi had been trying to offer: _"Would you do it again, now? Give everything that you served, everything that you are, to save that which you hold dear?"_

And from these dark and terrible regrets came something else, as he finally opened his eyes and stared again into the darkness of space…because they transmuted, every one, into emotions which rose from deep within, driven by a primal urge.

A single chance—a moment held suspended, poised, waiting to fall…

And how could there be any other choice, save the one he made? The most basic impulse which fired in every cell of his being. Because he would fracture the Fates themselves, if they tried to stop him. Would bend the galaxy to his will, in this.

Would bring an Emperor to his knees.

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To be continued…..

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	32. Chapter 32

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**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO**

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"Captain Parlan."

Onboard the ISD _Relentless_, which held position at the outer edge of the security perimeter, the Ops officer glanced up to Parlan, who stood in quiet, casual conversation with his XO. Everyone knew that the heightened security level was because of the armada's principal dignitary rather than any specific situation, but given that, there was no excuse for laxness in even the most commonplace occurrence. His crew were professional enough to know that—and he was certainly experienced enough to listen.

"Sir, I've locked onto an incoming ship bearing Imperial markings and transponders, which appears to have failed to heed the all-stop at the outer perimeter marker."

Parlan glanced to the crewman, then out to the viewports at the front of the bridge. "Hail it—and get its ID."

"Comms open, Sir."

"Unidentified ship, this is the ISD _Relentless_. Contrary to previous permissions, the base you're closing in on is now an official no-fly zone—I repeat, you're entering a military no-fly zone. You're ordered to heave-to and transmit clearance and ID."

"No reply, Sir. It's the Imperial Naval Corvette _Serapis,_ a CR90. It's logged as having permission to dock in two days' time, as part of its standard route."

"_Serapis_, this is ISD _Relentless_, you are listed as holding permissions for two days' time. If you don't heave-to and acknowledge this comm, you're officially in breach of legitimate orders and policy. Respond, now." As he spoke, Parlan walked slowly to the front of the bridge, accompanied by his XO.

Multiple heads had lifted from their consoles in the crew pit as men stretched slightly to watch the CR90 corvette glide slowly on under maneuvering thrusters, apparently unperturbed.

"INC _Serapis_, this is your last warning; unless you heave-to immediately, you'll be marked as aggressive and we _will_ open fire. If you're unable to make comms, deactivate your systems and douse your running lights."

Everyone on the bridge was watching now, a few men in the crew pit standing as their senior officers above walked quickly to command stations to either side of the upper walkways. Parlan turned without hesitation.

"Weapons, lock on and make ready to fire on my command. Comms, alert the _Conqueror_." He turned, raising his voice to the pickup. "INC _Serapis_, this is your last chance. Heave-to, or we will fire for effect."

"Sir," The Ops officer stood, voice tightening. "Bite-analysis of the transponder code shows that it contains errors…"

Parlan turned to the man, then to Comms. "See if you can verify the _Serapis'_ position on military fleet logs, now! Tactical, give me a detailed scan of the vessel."

The tactical officer, to his credit, was already running them. "Sir, it has no readable life support, no life-signs…but its power signature is off the scale."

"Sir." It was Comms. "I have a duplicate transponder signal for the _Serapis_, three days out from here!"

That was enough for Parlan. "Shields up. Weapons, open fire—I want it in pieces! Comms, contact the _Gauntlet_ and the _Haakon_, identify the intruder and request supporting fire."

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Vader strode through the corridors of the _Conqueror, _mind ablaze, horrified at his own actions as countless moments replayed, of indefensible hostility against an already bewildered and brutalized child. And all too quickly, his fury at himself turned elsewhere as he grasped for justification, every past decision dissected. Because he'd been led into this; lured into it, by the master of such ploys. Baited and provoked by Palpatine, with the one incentive that he'd known would always succeed. How could it not, when Kenobi's name had been invoked? The man who had once claimed brotherhood, yet come to Mustafar to kill Anakin—who had brought Padmé with him; filled her head with lies and sent her after Anakin in his darkest hour. He must have known how Anakin would react—he must have! Yet he still sent her. Still used her.

Vader's memories of Obi-Wan on that dire and desperate day, young and strong and furious and outraged, transmuted to an old man's confession, laced with years of regret and self-doubt. _"Padmé came to Mustafar of her own will, but I didn't stop her from speaking to you. I thought that she could reach you, that she could fire the compassion and humanity within you…and she paid the price for my blind hope."_

Paid the price for her husband's blind fury…

He slowed, mortified…had it been his fault, all of it? His own anger, his own fears…

No. No, everything, every single action from the moment he'd left Tatooine, had spiraled down to this, every tightening of the reins and narrowing of the options…all because of them—the Jedi, with their precious teachings, held up as some kind of noble ideal when they were little more than petty rules to hold him back and chain him down.

From the moment they'd seen him, they'd tied him to this course. Taken him from everything he'd known to bind and restrain him for their own self-serving motives.

"_What does your heart tell you?"_

In the midst of his fury the memory of his mother's earnest words were a balm, a cooling wave that doused the acrimony with intense regret, spoken as consolation and encouragement to her only son as she'd given him over into the care of the Jedi.

She'd thought that she was gaining him a life free of the shackles of slavery. If she'd known the truth…would she have ever let him go? Because it had never been that—never been the freedom she'd longed for, for him. But like her, he'd truly believed that he was gaining his liberty...

In fact, they had told him what to do, how to think, how to act, even as a child. Begun, from that very first encounter, to bind him with their judgments and subtle criticism. Told him to clip his emotions, to give himself over to their teachings, to their choices. Told him to call them Master. Made him, once again, everything that he believed he had left behind.

And he had let them, because he hadn't known any better. Because he'd trusted them—respected them. And so he'd struggled, forced into a life that wasn't his by nature, trying to conform, to cow tow to their pointless traditions, to beg for the smallest scrap of approval.

They'd taught him to always put the lives of others before his own, but when he'd gone to them for help, afraid for the life of the mother they'd forbidden him to see because emotional ties were not their way, they had told him once again to deny his emotions. Ignore what he was feeling and fearing.

When he had found something resonant and powerful and all-consuming in his closeness to another, they had told him again to deny himself. It was not their way. Had they thought that he could simply turn his back? Had they stunted their own emotions so much that they failed to comprehend the depth of such connections, or did they simply not care? Were they that complacent, that insensitive, or that arrogant?

Perhaps they had been right; perhaps he should have learned to separate himself from the kind of deep emotions and attachments which would drive him to react so instinctively…but all that they had done was to stand back and cite abstract platitudes as they watched him struggle, and he could see no deeper wisdom in that. No greater understanding that deserved to endure, or be passed on through the ages as wise and venerated.

What had they expected, when he had turned on them, after they'd stood by for years and watched him struggle? They had judged him so often, always ready to find him wanting…had they truly not expected to be judged in return? Over all the years that he'd hunted them down to the very last of their kind, determined not to let that flawed and broken dogma continue in any form, their demise had seemed so much a self-fulfilling prophesy.

And even then they'd reached out from the grave to sabotage his hard-won freedom. It was surely their unwavering stunting of his emotions which had left him impervious to any empathy, so that he'd seen only an opportunity in the terrified child who had been dragged before him that first night, its connection to Obi-Wan assured. Seen only a perfect revenge.

He hadn't seen a child at all. Hadn't felt any connection, because he had been taught for so long not to feel, not to seek out such emotions. What little he'd had, he'd shut down on the death of his own wife and son, so that the innate connection, the need to protect, to nurture, to—

"_What does your heart tell you?"_ His mother's voice again, imbued and embodied of all that he should have been to his own son…

Vader paused, aware that his hands had coiled to fists and his lip twisted to a sneer…and the clammy cold of realization slowly smothered him; that these were nothing more than frenzied rationalizations, a desperate search to turn the blame elsewhere.

"_You never…you never once protected me."_ He remembered in devastating detail his son's face as he'd murmured those words; the self-censure in his voice as he'd stopped himself from speaking—then had somehow dredged up the daring to say it anyway.

That was the fact; that was the hard truth, when all of Vader's ready validations were brushed aside—that it was of his doing, entirely.

It had been so obvious that the boy knew more than he'd speak aloud—even at the time, Vader had thought that. But he hadn't cared—had been too filled with his own rage at Kenobi to see anything other than the chance to somehow gain revenge. His own acerbic reply, uttered with such biting disdain, was proof of that.

"_You deserve each other."_ Had he said that—had he said that to his own son? That he deserved all that he'd endured…at Palpatine's hands, and his own father's.

And the boy…that brief, injured disillusionment, his reply part appeal, part indictment._ "Very probably... But I didn't when I first came here." _

They had been within two years of each other's age, he and his son, when they had been uprooted and taken from everything they had known and understood. Dropped into other lives entirely. And yet Vader had failed so completely to see those similarities in the child who had been dragged, bewildered, before him. Hadn't cared to.

"_You were nothing. If I'd had my way, you would have been dead that first night._" Again that constriction burned within Vader's chest, pushing the air from his lungs as he closed his eyes against the truth of his own actions. What must the boy have seen, when he had looked at the man who had lashed out with such belligerent spite, when asked of the fate of his wife and son: _"I believed them dead … by my hand."_

Was there any wonder that Luke had admitted nothing? Was it even possible to reach any kind of understanding? Or had he spent too many years burning those bridges with such eager and ignorant malice. Was this Fate's final revenge, for his own willful blindness; realization, too late to salvage anything. Regret, too late to even try.

But surely the boy felt something—or why risk the pretence of coming to Vader at all? Still, the glaring reality of their fiercely-enforced severance remained, given harsh truth by the boy's uneasy declaration:

"_I don't trust you. I've never had a single reason to, and you've not given me any tonight."_

No, this was Vader's own doing, as much as Palpatine's. He had not _wanted_ to see.

But he wanted to now—wanted with a power that pulled his every thought into sharp focus and imbued it with new purpose. Vader slowed his long stride to glance through the corridor's viewport and out into space beyond the _Devastator_, eyes on the multiple dots of distant ships. Somewhere among them, wrapped in the dark cloak of deep space, was a ship with the power to bring Palpatine down—power sufficient to send even a Sith Master to his grave. Power enough to gain Vader his revenge, on the man who had taken years of delight in turning father and son against each other. He stared out into the void, feeling his lip twitch in satisfaction as a plan began to formulate which would take all necessities into consideration.

As it did so he sensed a brief, searching tendril within the Force, neither obvious nor disguised…and knew that his son was looking for him, from high above and behind Vader's present location. For a second he paused, searching to tie down the inconsistency within it, the wavering instability…but the contact was already broken, leaving only a whisper of indefinable disquiet in its place. Nodding just slightly as his intentions began to crystallize Vader set forward, no conscious thought given to where he was going, though he knew it absolutely.

It should perhaps have been the Master who had lied and manipulated him that Vader searched out right now; the quick gratification, the sating of personal anger before all else… But Palpatine could wait—would be made to wait, at Vader's hand. After all, he needed only keep Palpatine here, and fate would run its course.

So it wasn't his scheming Master whom he aimed unerringly for. Because the primal drive that had fired the very first time he'd felt his child kick in Padmé's belly had flared again, no less powerful for the passage of time—and so Vader walked with renewed purpose to reclaim the only thing that really mattered in this moment: his son.

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Indo stood patiently in the quiet corridor at the base of the Command Tower, waiting for Luke to come to him after his meeting with the Emperor, alternately fretting as to Luke's condition and fuming that Solo hadn't followed one simple order to take the boy immediately to a medibay.

He'd waited sufficiently long that he was beginning to reconsider his decision not to return to the Bridge, when his comlink finally buzzed. Still hold of it, Indo instantly lifted it—and saw whom the comm was from. His face fell to a neutral, guarded position as he answered. "This is Viscount Indo."

"Do you know who he is?"

The undisguised intimidation in Lord Vader's growled demand made Indo falter. "I'm sorry?"

"The boy—do you know who he is? Did he tell you the truth?"

"May I assume you are speaking of Commander Antilles?"

"Did he tell you his parentage?"

"If you wish to discuss any aspect of the death of the Organas, then I must direct you to the Emperor himself. I have no—"

"I will deal with Palpatine soon enough."

"You're speaking of the Emperor," Indo hissed, at the undisguised resentment in Lord Vader's bass voice.

"Yes. It seems we share a common enemy, you and I."

"You're mistaken, Lord Vader. My loyalty to the Emperor has always been paramount—as has Commander Antilles's. If you are somehow trying to infer otherwise, then—"

"You do not hold the facts, as I did not. That is how he controls; with secrets and lies. With artifice and contrivance and duplicity. That is how he gained all that he now holds—your loyalty and Luke's. But I'll bring his whole Empire down before I'll give him one more day with the boy."

"Luke?" Indo struggled to keep up, appalled by the intensity of Vader's hostile disavowal. "…Are you seriously claiming such threats in his name? Luke would never agree to such a thing. His allegiance is—"

"The boy is my son." The silence was charged with a thousand questions, all of which Lord Vader answered with terse gravity. "I did not know…I do now."

Indo stared at nothing, hearing a thousand warring emotions in that leaden voice, restrained as it was. There was something in the way in which Vader said those words that made the universe buckle around them. Absolute intention, regardless of anything else.

"So I say it again; we share a common enemy, you and I."

Indo recoiled, dragged back to the moment by the assertion. Whatever the Emperor's intentions in keeping the truth from Lord Vader regarding his son, it had nothing to do with him—in fact, knowing Vader as he did, Indo was inclined to agree with the Emperor's decision. "I have no dispute with …"

"He is your enemy, as much as he is mine," Vader stated with absolute authority. "The destroyer of all you held close."

Indo faltered as his chest froze and an icy disquiet crawled up his spine. "I don't underst—"

"We are not so very different, you and I. Palpatine took both our sons from us."

Comprehension was instant; devastating. A coldness took Indo and held him suspended, nothing to be said that was equal to the stillness which raged and roared inside him.

"Palpatine had your son killed," Vader avowed in leaden, unrelenting tones. "To better concentrate your attentions."

The callousness of it; the cruelty, the pitiless inhumanity, to take a child, to leave a father so wounded… "Dubrail…" It was barely a whisper; a wish: that he could have prevented it, could have stepped forward and taken his son's place. It twisted within like the turn of a knife, slicing through all of Indo's restraint and reserve…

And he heard the same—every facet—mirrored in Lord Vader's voice. "You and I, we are both bereft, because of him. We are both betrayed."

He felt a surge of amity with this man who had been his enemy and his rival for so long. The man he'd seen as nothing more than an inconvenience, an impediment in Luke's rise, now spoke with such passion. That Lord Vader was lying did not enter into it; Indo could hear it in his voice, in the words he chose, in the needs which drove them as he spoke again:

"Help me—and I will give you revenge. Your son is lost…mine may yet have a chance."

There was such power in the words; of purpose, of intent. A father, protecting his son. In this moment, driven by truths so painful they could barely be grasped, Indo understood—he _understood_ this feeling. This innate need to protect. This driving emotion which pushed with the power of life itself. Recognizing it in another who had remained always so detached fired it within himself with an incredible energy, an elemental instinct which raced through him, the touchpaper which lit the flame to burn away years of driving ambition and reduce them to flickering embers…

With it came the all-consuming weight of regret that his own opportunity was lost. Had he always suspected the truth? Always been plagued by the thought, though he'd spent years suppressing it as he'd pushed forward with greater plans, willingly blind. His whole life, he'd been that. Everything that he'd intended for his son, he'd transferred so easily to Luke. But then that had been what the Emperor had intended, had depended upon; that given this fresh opportunity, Indo would look no closer at his own reservations and doubts; would simply fold them away, and push forward. How horrific, how offensive, that Palpatine had seen that potential.

Indo saw again the slight and stifled eleven year old boy who had been placed in his care that night. Remembered the pity he'd felt, the guilt at having looked away for four years...and the regrets and misgivings that had begun to accumulate of late, carefully compartmentalized and ignored, stung as never before.

He closed his eyes and Dubrail's image came instantly to mind, eleven years old, his blond hair trimmed short, skin pale from the hours spent in study, which should have been spent in play, in living—in laughter. And with an intensity which wrenched, Indo wished fervently that it had held more joy—that more had been given over to the childish irrelevancies which Indo himself had denied him, in his driving desire to see his son excel.

Thought, too, of Luke, skin always pale, hunched down hour on day on month on year in the confines of the library in his quarters, constantly pushed by Indo and tested by Palpatine, the fear of failure ground home with every new chastisement… And again, Indo had looked away, because the facts hadn't fit into any of the carefully-created compartments which comprised his own ambitions…and because he simply hadn't known what to do—how to deal with grim reality. So he had slotted it into his objectives and intentions by looking away—by assuring himself that moments of difficulty or discomfort could be dismissed, when viewed as part of the greater whole.

However much he'd been prepared to sacrifice to see Dubrail succeed, it paled in comparison to the ever-increasing compromises he'd made in Luke's upbringing over the years… and quite suddenly and unsettlingly, he wondered…had they been too many?

Had he failed them both, in his dogged desire to see them excel?

All of the emotions which he'd tamped down for so long erupted at the scale of his betrayal by the Emperor whom he'd dedicated his life to serve. How divisive had been Palpatine's betrayal when he'd asked a father, still grieving at the loss of his child, whether or not the triumphs of his son's education were a repeatable scenario. How venomously cold, to pursue such a ruthless agenda, simply to ensure that Indo's full attention would be on Luke, when he needed the boy educated and re-integrated.

"_Help me—and I will give you revenge."_

Revenge…the power of Lord Vader's words…their bass tone vibrated down into Indo's very bones. He'd never once in his life sought it, never been moved sufficiently to even consider it. Now it hummed, potent…

"This is the moment," Vader pushed. "This is the single moment, when we can accomplish all."

"….. How?"

"There is a Rebel plot to destroy the _Conqueror_—an incoming ship, loaded with explosives. It is flawed, but it can be made to succeed…if you can keep Palpatine trapped on the primary Bridge until I can reach him. Once there, I will do the same until their plan takes effect." Vader said it without hesitation, though they both knew what he was saying—what fate he was sealing not just the Emperor to, but themselves, also.

Indo's mind skipped, freefalling, flicking between his dead son and the poor child that he had so readily accepted as substitute…moved unstoppably to all that he'd done, to feed the Emperor's avaricious demands. All he'd asked of a vulnerable child. All he'd tacitly promised him in return; reprieve, respite…protection.

_Protection…_floundering in shock, his mind grasped for the recognizable. Yes; even now, he could do what he had always done, what he had done since the traumatized, damaged child had first been delivered into his guardianship and…

But no—wasn't that a convenient lie, too? Because he'd never done as he'd wanted, never done what he'd known, deep down, was necessary. Never picked up that small child and walked him from the palace and into safe anonymity…and now it was too late. Too late for Dubrail, too late for Luke…too late for Indo. He fell to crushed silence for long seconds, finally overtaken by events…

Then straightened, lifting his chin as he tightened his jaw, willing himself to find new strength in the words, a greater purpose that went beyond himself; a way forward. Perhaps there was one last opportunity to actually do as he'd always blindly convinced himself that he had—and today it would be with new resolve and purpose.

Yes; he would look after his charge…to the end.

"What do I need to do?"

"There are command codes which can be used on any Star Destroyer, to override all Bridge commands and lock out—"

"I know, Luke holds a set." Indo heard surprise in Lord Vader's brief hesitation, and allowed himself a flash of pride, even now, that the boy was so trusted.

"Do you know them?" Vader asked bluntly.

"…Yes."

"Use them. Go to the secondary Bridge on level eight, and lock out all of the main Bridge consoles. All control will automatically transfer to the secondary Bridge."

"The Emperor has a set of command codes which override all others."

"The first thing you will do from the secondary Bridge is to disable and shut down the main Bridge consoles entirely. Lock them out of the system, so that the Emperor's codes cannot be logged there. Then close and lock all atmospheric and blast doors leading to the main Bridge and the crew pit. Shut off all internal and inter-ship communications, then disable Engineering and propulsion systems."

Indo's mind raced as he went over the necessary steps, remembered from the hours he'd spent drilling Luke on command code procedures and utilization…teaching the boy absolute fealty to an undeserving master.

"Palpatine has the power to wrench the doors free," Vader continued, "so you must seal off all turbolift and corridor access, then vent the air in the surrounding corridors."

"How will you…"

"The mask I wear is a sealed breathing unit. I will be able to pass through unhindered. If you can keep him there, then I will deal with Palpatine myself…after I have my son."

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On the _Conqueror's_ main Bridge, the comms officer lifted his head. "Sir, I have an incoming message from the _Relentless_. They've identified an inbound corvette which is failing to respond to hails. Its transponder ID's it as the Imperial Naval Corvette _Serapis_."

Captain Hurren turned with idle interest; a corvette was hardly a threat to a Star Destroyer, but with the Emperor himself onboard, there was no room for laxness or errors. "Where is it?"

"It's at 330 by 103 by 760, Sir, just passing the outer perimeter. No response, as yet. The _Relentless_ reports a far higher than norm power signature."

Hurren walked forward to stare into the darkness, mentally placing the corvette's location before he realized that his view was obscured by the massive bulk of the ISD _Devastator_, moored starboard of the _Conqueror_."

"Contact the _Relentless_, ask them for visuals and an update. And contact the Drydock—ask them to verify whether the corvette's legitimate."

"Yes, Sir."

It was probably nothing; the corvette would stop soon enough, when it realized it was under the scrutiny of multiple Star Destroyers. But Hurren went through the motions anyway, following procedure. "Helm, contact Engineering. Order the startup sequence for the main engines, and get a time for their coming online." Fully powered down for docking, the massive engines would need several minutes to warm up.

"Yes, Sir."

"Do we have maneuvering thrusters?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Fire them up. Contact the Drydock and request that they seal their airlocks in preparation to disengage—and tile all shields to starboard."

"Yes, Sir."

"Ops, cycle all internal airlocks and standby to disengage, if necessary."

A run of confirmations were heard over the hubbub of activity, tribute to the efficiency of any Destroyer's crew.

"Sir, I have the Drydock's commander requesting the reason for…"

The man broke off mid-sentence as his console lights flickered and died. He wasn't alone. Hurren turned in time to see every console in the Crew Pit shut down in sequence. One by one, every department Chief called out the failure.

"Sir, Ops console just closed down."

"Sir, Tactical console just closed down."

"Sir, Weapons console has closed down."

"Sir, Comms console just closed down—I'm locked out of the system." The Comms Chief stood as he spoke, glancing about the darkened runs of consoles.

Ops spoke out, hands moving quickly over his dead console as he tried to reboot it. "Sir, this isn't a system failure—I think we've been locked out."

"Well then get us back in!" Hurren glanced to Tactical. "Are shields up?"

"I think…yes, Sir, I think they are."

"Contact Engineering—ask them what the hell's going on."

"Sir, I have no comms," the officer reminded tightly. "Personal comlinks are still active, I think."

Hurren was already pulling his comlink free, walking to the rear of the Bridge, when the blast doors auto-closed and locked. Below, he heard the Crew Pit doors engage and lock in unison. Glancing once to the entrance of the command conference room to one side of the Bridge, where the Emperor presently resided, he momentarily weighed up the drawbacks of informing him…and turned instead on his XO.

"Get engineering on a comlink. Tell them to close down any incoming commands, from any source," he snapped. "And get them up to the Bridge. Tell them I want those doors open and I want command of my Destroyer back—now!"

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Luke walked the corridors without thinking, knowing already where his…where Vader was. As he walked, he worked to try to clear the remnants of the drugs from his system, aware that they were still slowing him down—more so every step, it seemed, as he began to struggle for breath.

Four times he slowed, losing his nerve, conviction wavering…and each time he ordered himself forward with a shake of his head which made him stagger, still unsteady on his feet, quoting his Master's claims back to himself. Clinging to them. But each time he would walk only so far before he began to slow again, thoughts in turmoil, deeply divided.

The fifth time he slowed, knowing that he was close, the realization hit that he was once again in the position of having to make a choice, as he did with Bail and Breha…only now, it was between Palpatine or Vader. It broadsided him like a body-blow, tightening his chest as he came to a stop, arm out to the wall to support himself. And recognition finally hit home; that he couldn't do it. He couldn't be forced to make that decision again. His head spun as he struggled to breathe, his whole body heaving.

He couldn't do this—he couldn't do it. He couldn't.

Alone, he dropped down to a breathless crouch, lightheaded, desperately trying to gulp air into frozen lungs, knowing that he couldn't make this decision. He couldn't kill his father…but he couldn't return to Palpatine having not done so. He _knew_ that.

…and slowly, from the rising panic, came a quietly whispered truth: that he didn't have to. There was another way—a way out of all of this. A way out, entirely.

Because he couldn't do this any more. He couldn't be pulled so many ways any longer, and he couldn't see any other way out— And now, in his desperation, stooped over forward as he struggled simply to breathe, heart pounding and thoughts reeling, the answer rang with persuasive appeal.

It was so easy; so incredibly easy. He could answer his Master's command and walk into this duel… and simply let Vader do what he had threatened to, for Luke's whole life. Let his father kill him. It seemed so effortless compared to the alternatives, which left him crouched and crippled in the empty corridor, gasping for air. So very easy. He straightened a little, chest still heaving, though the pressure in his temples eased.

This was it; this was the answer. Just make it all stop, in a single second. He took a breath in, then another…felt composed enough to stand again, then to walk, disjointed from his surroundings yet deeply aware of every nuance... He turned the corner—and the next, feeling power return to his limbs along with a distant high, a buzzing, surreal deliverance as his conviction solidified. Another corner—and he halted.

To its far end a black-cloaked figure stood still and straight, his bulk intimidating, his waiting silence giving him the air of an augur.

.

Simply the sight of him made Luke's mind react automatically, calculating the strengths and pitfalls of a duel here without once looking away, his awareness widening to take in the arena, such as it was. He shouldn't fight here; he knew that, of course. There was no room to maneuver in the narrow, featureless corridor, giving strength the obvious edge over speed. He'd claimed once to his Master that he would never fight Vader in an enclosed space—that he'd been taught too well for that—but he no longer cared. No longer cared to walk away from this duel. So much was welling inside of him, a pressure that made it impossible to think any more, too many conflicting loyalties pulling in different directions.

All he knew was that he wanted this over. He wanted it all gone.

Letting his breath out in a slow sigh against his tight chest, he set forward.

.

In his head, he knew that he should already have launched into a run. If he launched into a run halfway down the long corridor then he could ignite the saber still gripped in his hand, and force the fight. By the time he reached him, Vader would have lit his saber in response and the duel would have irrevocably begun.

In his head, as he walked forward, he could see himself doing so—see exactly the sequence of events that would incite the duel…and yet still he walked forward, pacing the distance at speed and with purpose…but not breaking into that run.

And then it was too late, and he could only slow to a stop the precise distance from Vader that was needed to initiate a duel, his saber still clutched in his hand, thumb resting to the activation toggle with his shoulders set, his weight already on the balls of his feet, his stance unmistakably martial, _willing_ Vader to react to the provocation so that he could do the same…

And still Vader stared without moving, his hands remaining empty, sense wrapped up tight as Luke struggled to fire himself up, every muscle wire-taut, blood pumping, jaw tense…

Vader moved just a fraction. "Tatooine."

The surreal nature of Vader's reply to the unspoken challenge threw Luke for a second. "What?"

"The sandstone in my quarters—it is from the Piion Range, near Mos Espa on Tatooine. The wood husk you saw in my quarters on Coruscant is a type of fungus that grows in a single night there only once every decade or so, when the rains come. It grows, pollinates, dies and dries out within three days."

Luke stared, at a loss as to what to do or say, his train of thought completely derailed as Vader spoke on.

"I never saw one in the time that I was there, only their dried husks, at the foot of the canyon walls. I left when I was nine years old, taken away to become—"

"I don't care!" Luke yelled the words, hand tightening about his saber as he took a staggered step back, not wanting to know, shaking his head as he pulled fractured thoughts still muggy from drugs back under control, struggling to hold onto his focus, only wanting this over.

"You are in danger," Vader said calmly, his black helmet catching the light in irregular flares as he turned to look out through the viewports and into the darkness of space beyond the _Conqueror's_ hull. "There is a Rebel plot underway, right now."

Again, Vader's unexpected words momentarily eclipsed Luke's intentions. "How do you know?"

"Your Corellian pilot contacted me."

Luke shook his head. "Solo's not even here any more."

"He is on a shuttle, with neither power nor comms, at your doing," Vader intoned, knowing far too much.

"The shuttle's gone to lightspeed." Luke tilted his head. "And if it had no comms, how did you speak with him before it did?"

"He has your comlink."

Luke's fingers twitched briefly, though he didn't lift his hand to check—didn't need to. Whatever else Vader was working to keep hidden in this moment, the truth of his present claim wasn't it. The part of Luke that had been trained from childhood to be a soldier for his Master's cause was already dropping into focus, the possible threat overriding all else as he glanced out into the void. His words to Palpatine a short while ago, themselves a repetition of his Master's earlier vision, came to mind: "_Something stalks, wrapped about with a pitch black cloak."_

Pitch black cloak; it was space, not Vader, that his Master had seen—the danger was coming in from deep space! "What is it—what's out there?"

"There is an incoming ship—a stolen Imperial corvette loaded with explosives, under Rebel control."

"One?" It couldn't be that simple—it couldn't.

"Solo claimed that the corvette has Shield X technology."

"The _Blade 5_." He knew precisely what the stolen ship was capable of, knew the details of the case exactly, having read them repeatedly over the last few days, before Palpatine had ordered him to hand the assignment to another. "It has…" Luke paused, as Vader's first words finally sank in: "_Solo claimed…"_

Han's words to him when they were on the shuttle reverberated with new insight: _"Even if you both somehow survive, you're still dead, because he still owns you."_

"_Even if you both somehow survive..."_

For a moment Luke faltered, realization of Han's betrayal taking the ground from beneath his feet…but even now the obvious occurred, taking the sting; that Han had been trying to get him away. That was what it had all been about—the drugs, Luke's waking on the shuttle—that was why Han had been trying to get him off of the _Conqueror_.

Another brief flare of anger lit, at the realization that Han had intended none of this for the Emperor—that he would have left him here to—

Even woolly from drugs, his mind put the pieces together and came up with the facts; this was an attempt on Palpatine's life, by the Rebellion—it wasn't simply a raid, it was an assassination attempt, and they were in the middle of it right now! Instantly he dropped into trained procedures. "Do you have an incoming course? A position?" His hand went to his own comlink before he remembered that he no longer had it. A brief and sobering reminder, if he'd needed one, that the drugs still dragged his thoughts slower. "I need your comlink—the outer perimeter may be able to stop it."

His mind was racing, facts from the documents he'd read firing. Chances were that they wouldn't be able to penetrate the stolen ship's shields…alternatives? Could they ram it—knock it off-course? He barely heard Vader's voice:

"The ship cannot be stopped by conventional means. The plan is not without flaws, but with specific intervention, it could be made viable. Its main weakness is the ability of the _Conqueror_ to avoid the collision."

Luke nodded. "We need to pull clear of the drydock—we need main engines online."

He glanced out of the wide viewport and across the hulking mass of the drydock, looking out into deep space beyond for that pinprick of light which would be the corvette, the duel forgotten in his need to address this greater threat; his need to protect his Master. "The comlink," he prompted again.

It would take valuable minutes to get the main engines up to power for a lightspeed jump, he knew, and the drydock would need to be evacuated as much as possible if it was in the line of… He turned back, realizing that he was still waiting, hand out for the comlink…that Vader was remaining still and silent…that he wasn't about to hand over the comlink.

That he had no intention of averting this.

Luke straightened, voice dropping. "Give me your comlink."

Vader's helmeted head tipped a fraction higher. "Let it run its course."

Aghast, Luke stared…then backed up a step, intending to turn and walk back along the corridor he'd come through; there was a hardline comlink at the pressure door just around the last corner, and—

The sound of a lightsaber igniting halted him, tightening his hand about his own saber hilt as Vader said again, more forcefully, "Let it run its course."

A dozen reactions skipped quickly through his mind as he stared at the distant turn in the corridor; break into a run to reach the comlink, fight, use the Force to contact his Master—

All were broken short, unfulfilled, as the saber hilt in his hand wrenched forcefully backwards as if under its own volition, yanking him about as he tried to keep hold of it despite the heavy body-blow that knocked the air from his lungs in almost the same second.

He stumbled under the sudden onslaught, but got his feet under himself in a second, yelling out in indignation as he used the Force to counter the pull on his saber hilt and enable him to bring his freed hand around in a wide sweep, lighting his saber as he did so.

He wasn't close enough to do any more than break Vader's concentration, forcing him a hasty step back…and again they both froze, staring at each other, primed to fight but holding back.

.

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Vader watched as the boy gathered himself mentally and physically, prepared to fight this out. Already he was cursing his own impulsive actions at lighting his saber at all, but the boy had clearly intended to warn his Master one way or another, and Vader couldn't allow that. Now, with that single hasty and ill considered move, he had placed himself in opposition to his son—forced them both into direct contention—and never having had to do so in living memory, he had no idea of how to back down.

And somewhere, some tiny fragment of his own thoughts thrilled at the fact that his son had the courage to stand against him at all, let alone so completely undaunted.

So many emotions had fired as the boy had stepped into view. Sensing him close, Vader had slowed and turned about from his march down the long corridor which led to the supply docking bay, satisfied with his location. It was as near as he needed to be when the boy arrived, whilst still remaining in the favorable confines of the hallway.

The boy too had stopped at the turn of the corner—and Vader sensed the multitude of intermingled emotions which fired in his son even at this distance, conflicted and fearlessand irresolute, yet doggedly determined…

For himself…for the first time, Vader had viewed the boy with new eyes—those of a father, looking at his son—so that as Luke had summoned tense surety to start forward, he had seen for the first time how gaunt the boy was, how pale his skin. Had seen, as he closed, how dark the circles beneath his eyes from years of stress and lack of sleep. Had seen as never before how fragile the boy was, how frail…and yet how strong, closing without hesitation as Vader had backstepped further towards the docking bay behind him.

Had seen Padmé in him; her high cheeks and nimble frame; her resolve under pressure, her fearless intensity. Had seen… had seen Anakin's eyes, pale blue, Anakin's hair, a dark blond mop, loose and unruly. Anakin's uncontainable manner, wildly impetuous, wilfully single-minded. Anakin's abilities: a connection far beyond any other. And yet the boy didn't use it. Summoned, in this moment, barely a fraction of what he was capable of—why?

Why shy away from the power that was his for the taking?

Was it the drugs that Solo had admitted to having fed the boy…or something more? Something deeper? He'd known for a long time that the boy had held back, particularly in his Master's presence, but he'd seen no advantage in revealing that the boy's connection was greater than he'd admit to, when his own… Vader straightened as an answer occurred; the ultimate irony. Whilst Vader himself had grown ever more bitter and resentful, aware of all he'd lost in Palpatine's eyes, as the result of his duel with Kenobi…had the boy been so desperate to avoid notice that he squandered and suppressed his won connection, voluntarily handicapping himself in his desire to escape his Master's attentions?

Another thought came—and whilst the last had cut, this one drove to the core of him; that his own son has grown up in slavery just as much as he had, and to a far crueller Master.

As a child, Anakin had left Tatooine wanting to end such cruelty for all and for ever, wishing to protect any from ever suffering such a fate again. What had happened, between then and now? How had he lost his way so completely? If this was a punishment from the Fates, then it should be meted out to him, and not the boy.

Lost in his own convoluted thoughts, Vader allowed the tip of his saber to drop just slightly—the barest of margins—and seeing it, the boy backed up a step, again intending to head for the comlink at the far turn of the corridor, his head still tipped in warning, his saber held out to defend his retreat.

And again Vader took a step forward, forcing Luke to stop and set his feet against a possible attack. "Leave him—leave him to his fate."

"He always knew you'd turn on him some day."

It didn't for one moment come to Vader's mind to question why Luke still defended Palpatine, after all that the man had done. He'd spent enough years chained by the old man's manipulations and lies, he knew the strength those carefully-laid coercions held—had himself been shackled by them for two decades.

But no more. "I think I have the right to this."

"He'll kill you for it."

"He will try," Vader said calmly. He knew his fate now, had bound it up within his own intentions.

The boy straightened just slightly, as if composing himself—as if bracing himself. "He's sent me to do it—now."

The slow simmering outrage that had seethed within Vader boiled over into rage at what Palpatine had done, what he had asked of the boy… and Luke braced, his shoulders tensing in readiness for what must seem the inevitable explosion—

The effect on Vader was instant, a wave of guilt which washed through him, that his own son would think—would _expect_ this of him. The saber which had lifted in unthinking vehemence lowered again, though the boy remained on guard, ready to fight. Wanting to fight…no; trying to fight.

Had the Emperor had finally overreached himself? Even with the child he'd held and terrorized for so long, even with his charge trying so hard to comply…had the boy whose loyalty had been demanded and ruthlessly enforced, finally been given an order that he simply couldn't fulfill?

"I know the truth—that you are my son." There was such power in the words—of remorse and reconciliation. Simply to say them fired anew the need to speak them again, to hear them out loud. "You are my son."

The boy stopped cold. He flinched from them, actually flinched, as if from a body-blow.

"You are my son," Vader repeated, aware that in saying it aloud he was making it a reality, claiming—reclaiming—that which was his.

And the boy stared…simply stared, more broken that ever. "You hate me," he said quietly at last.

"I did not know," Vader held, solemn regret in his voice. "I did not know the truth."

"Why would that matter?"

The composed acceptance in his voice was appalling to Vader; that he had left such an impression—deservedly. That the boy couldn't comprehend the depth of feeling that such a relationship should inspire—had never been allowed to.

"I'm still the same person," Luke shook his head, "the person you desp—"

"Stop." Vader took a half-step forward, and Luke took the same back—and again Vader was reminded of all he had done to the boy, as Luke stared for long seconds, piercing blue eyes locked on Vader's own, his face as much a mask as his father's ever was.

But those pale eyes told volumes of the conflict within. His head jerked just slightly, as if unable to hold still—and suddenly he was shaking it, stepping quickly backwards. "I can't..."

"Luke." Vader took another step forwards—and the boy paused, his saber raising just slightly. Vader stopped, aware that he'd pushed the boy so far already—that Palpatine must have done the same, to force Luke to come here, like this. He shook his head. "You cannot go back to him."

"Now you say it, nine years too late?" His voice was rising on a wave of quick anger—like his father.

"I will not allow him to use you—not now."

"And you claim conscience?" He took another step back; distance. "You made my life a living, breathing hell—deliberately. Intentionally."

"I did not know." It was the mantra Vader repeated; the only defense he had.

"I was te—" Luke broke off in an instant. Went from yelling to muted, though his eyes and his anger didn't calm. "I was terrified of you." His saber came up as his body moved to a ready stance. "I'm not any more. If you taught me one thing, it was that."

"I cannot change what I did. But I can make amends, if you'll—"

"No." There was a flat emptiness to the hollow refusal…but again the boy backed up as he spoke, saber lowering. "Just…leave me alone."

Vader watched him retreat for two steps more before then turn away. "Luke…I cannot allow you to return to him."

"You have no say." Luke didn't look back as he spoke, but instead kept walking purposefully, head down and saber low, voice weary. "You gave that up nine years ago."

And what could Vader do, but what he did? He lifted a gloved hand, fingers spread, and the boy yelped in shock as his legs were wrenched from under him.

He twisted and curled as he fell, nimble enough that he hit the ground on a roll and came up almost instantly, already at a run towards Vader. His saber arced back in a broad sweep as he did so, the move wide and unthinking in the narrow space, so that its tip embedded in the wall to draw a bright scarlet line where the plasteel panels melted beneath the blade, and a gout of wild sparks from inset wiring arced to blind Vader momentarily, forcing him to backstep.

The incoming blow was hasty and untempered, all fury and no precision as it caught on Vader's rapidly raised blade, but the power behind it reverberated up his arms and fired an automatic reaction.

Without thinking he stepped forward and about the joined blades, turning to maintain his face to them as he stepped between the boy and the blades, using his size and mass to gain control.

But they'd played this game too often, in readiness for this moment—or perhaps not quite this moment. Immediately Luke disengaged, forced to take a swift step back as Vader shouldered into him and continued the turn to bring him around face to face with his retreating opponent, his now-freed saber swinging round at chest height.

What he should have done—what he _should_ have done—was deactivate his blade as he'd turned, but the move was completed before the thought, and his saber came round in a lethal swipe which forced Luke to a fast defense as he lunged away, arching his body back to avoid the blow, his saber held low and free so that it didn't engage—

And by taking that chance, he was already inside Vader's defenses, all of the power in Vader's swing still travelling away.

With no time and an incoming blade, Vader had little choice; he released the grip of his trailing arm from his hilt and brought it swiftly back, elbow out. He could have made a bone-shattering blow to the boy's face—instead he lowered his arm just slightly to land a hard strike to Luke's chest, with sufficient power to knock him back three staggered paces, so that the close saber blow that would have cut a sidewards slice up from Vader's ribs to his opposite shoulder went wide and weak, still close enough to flare in his vision for an instant as it passed, forcing him a step back.

Disengaged, each looked at the other, Luke struggling to heave in breath against the blow, Vader blinking at the flare of the near-miss.

In those seconds, each seemed to realize what they'd just done…

Vader lowered his blade, and the boy tipped his head as if reining himself in and issuing a warning in the same moment…then he backed up, one hand still to his aching chest, the other holding his saber loosely en-guard…and Vader knew where he still intended to go—and he knew that words would not stop the boy.

He moved instantly, covering the distance in two strides as he lifted his saber high for a heavy blow. Luke stopped, forced to reset his bodyweight and feet in anticipation of the incoming strike—

Halfway down, Vader rolled his hilt in the palm of his hand and turned the downward blow into a sideways slice at head-height. Luke was there instantly, as he'd known he would be, easily capable of deflecting but forced yet again to give ground in the narrow space, no room to maneuver, so that his only option was to sidestep hastily to avoid the swift back-pull of Vader's blade, placing them both side-on in the corridor, too close for any conventional duel.

"Stop!" Luke yelled the word, half-demand, half frustration—

They both pulled their blades back, Vader's thoughts still racing at the breakneck reaction-time that the close combat had forced. A half-step back and Luke's shoulders hit the wall behind him, making him brace. He'd surely known that he was making a grave mistake to face Vader in the confined space of the corridor, with no room to maneuver and Vader more easily able to force close quarters fighting and bring his strength to bear…yet he'd still done so. Why?

To a certain extent the fight had been forced by Luke's intention to return to his Master and warn him, and Vader's equal determination to stop the boy from doing so. But still, in that moment it occurred to Vader that the boy had made an obvious error in his choice to fight in a restricted arena, when he could so easily have waited and allowed Vader to back into the massive bay to his end of the long corridor before showing himself in the first place.

Sideways on now, Luke glanced quickly to the distant turn at the opposite end of the corridor, where they both knew that the hardwired comlink was set, and Vader moved his saber hilt to his right hand in a threat to block any move, forcing Luke to halt and making him yell out in frustration. "Let me tell him!"

Vader shook his head in silence, and the boy let out a yell of fury as he launched, his movements loose and quicksilver-fast, driven by desperation. Three fast blows to force Vader to plant his feet, then Luke sidestepped quickly, looking to sidestep down the corridor if he had to. Vader kicked off from his back foot, sustaining their relative positions as they moved down the corridor with their backs to the walls whilst maintaining the duel. The blades moved at incredible speed, lending a dangerous eloquence to even this frenzied attack as Luke pushed to get just one step ahead of Vader, whilst Vader worked to counter him step for step down the hallway at a near-run. The sabers clashed quickly but lightly in alternating succession to either side of their bodies, moving rapidly as Vader brought each strike to the boy's leading edge to slow him, and Luke countered with a block which enabled him to take the fight to Vader's trailing edge and clear the boy's path for one more step, the strikes barely important, the need to gain the upper hand in position everything.

Finally Vader's stride took him forward by just enough to catch the boy's blade and force it through a fast loop, blades locked together as they phosphoresced, enabling Vader to step around and arrest the boy's race for the turn of the corridor. Inside Luke's defenses, he made a wide swing at neck-height to stop the boy dead, forcing Luke to plant his feet and arch back beneath the incoming threat.

In a thousand practice duels, Luke would have dropped one hand from his saber hilt to free it for a fast backflip which would have taken him back and clear of the danger—but this was no longer a rehearsal, and the boy was too sharp to make a move which would have lost him any of the distance that he'd just worked so hard to gain.

Instead, he let the blade pass over him and brought his own up in a fast, unremarkable but truly dangerous stab which brought his saber beneath Vader's own. Forced on the defensive, Vader barely brought his blade around to block the blow in a fast clockwise vertical swipe as he jerked to the side, hearing the hiss of his dark cape as the amber blade made contact.

His retreat took them both beyond immediate contact for another moment, in which Luke glanced briefly to the turn in the corridor, then back to his father…and perhaps the realization had been dawning on the boy as it had Vader; that neither could completely control this—neither could completely control themselves, in truth—but something changed in Luke's eyes and his senses, moving from frustration to resignation; a hard decision reached…

And when he moved again, it was away from the turn in the corridor, and the comlink. Away from all previous intentions.

For a moment Vader was wary, but when the boy took three steps backwards towards the hangar entrance, he followed, drawn in lest Luke retreat to more open ground, where his speed could be brought into play.

Instantly as he moved forward Luke pushed off from his back heel, the feint perfect, gaining him sufficient time and distance to bring his blade about his head in a one-handed swing before he brought both hands back for the downward blow. Vader set his feet and his blade, and the boy swivelled his own hilt mid-swing to redirect the downward blow into a side-swipe at shoulder height, forcing Vader into a hasty defense which brought the tip of his saber down to clash lightly with the incoming blow, using the angle to push Luke's blade on in its horizontal sweep and force both combatants to swivel on the spot, turning completely about.

As they came round to face each other Vader put all his strength into a roundhouse blow and Luke, his eyes a fraction ahead of his blade, pulled his own saber vertical, hilt up, blade down, to catch Vader's blow before his own shoulder—but instead of trying to counter that massive forward inertia he sidestepped, angling so that Vader's blade slipped down his own, its momentum making Vader stumble past, forced to lurch awkwardly on to gain the time to turn about.

It had been an unexpected of parry, and caused Vader's first misstep—one which the boy was more than capable of taking advantage of—yet when Vader twisted about, bringing his saber swiftly with him as he staggered to regain his footing, Luke was simply stepping forwards, slow to make the blow that could have forced a hasty and more dangerous lapse on Vader's part. when it came, it was another overhead blow, tip sparking against the wall in the enclosed space, the wide arc easy to intersect and deflect as Vader gained his equilibrium—so much so that Vader was able to catch the blade and swing them both to the side, stepping in to shoulder the boy back with enough force to lift him from his feet briefly—enough time for Vader to kick out with his forward leg and land a hard blow to the boy's side and make him stagger another three steps back before he got his feet under himself...though again he didn't push forward, instead setting his weight and stance defensively.

Vader came in with three heavy blows, two from above and one from the side as the boy flinched beneath each, giving ground. Subtly, at first, so that Vader barely noticed, Luke's moves became a split-second slower…not less considered, but less aggressive. Less precise. A breath longer at the end of a parry, when his blade was to his side rather than between himself and his opponent, a fraction less power in the return, a degree misplaced in every swing. Not even close to his usual fluid finesse, gained through years of enforced study. Abruptly Vader remembered Solo's words—that he had drugged the boy, somehow. Searching, he could sense the muzzy drag at the very edges of Luke's perceptions, dulling his mind and slowing his body a fraction…sense the tiredness which was burning in spent muscles.

Still, the boy could fight better than this—even weighed down by drugs, he could fight better than these last moves, barely parried, let alone countered—the only defense the boy had been taught. Years…years in which Vader had mercilessly persecuted him came to mind, each lesson taught in a manner that would never be forgotten, a scar for every one. But he'd taught him, forced into the boy every forte and nuance of his craft.

He could fight better than this.

He remembered Luke's brief glance to his lost goal; that visible abandonment of objective as he had looked down the corridor minutes earlier, that conscious change of intention, that gradual dip in performance, in aptitude, in speed and skill…

Realization, when it came, was a silent explosion within Vader's chest: that the boy didn't want to win. That he was trying to force Vader's hand, incite a reaction…was _giving_ Vader the opportunities to end this duel conclusively.

He stared, the air pushed from his lungs in revulsion…

What had they done, his Master and his father, to reduce the boy to this? So torn, so broken, that he was incapable of making this choice, between the Master who had isolated and controlled him his whole life and the father who had abused and brutalized him. This was what they had created, between them. This was what they had destroyed.

Had scarred and damaged to such a degree that the boy would seek any means, rather than defy his Master's orders—seek the ultimate escape.

Every spark of fury was doused by that knowledge—by recognition of his own culpability in it. Palpatine had committed the most heinous crime in all that he'd done to keep father and son apart, but in truth…in truth, Vader himself had driven his son away.

And the Emperor had been there, waiting. Not exactly a substitute, but certainly the only option—he had made sure of that. Had used it to bind the boy to him just as profoundly as he'd once done with Anakin Skywalker.

But if he couldn't take Luke from Palpatine, then he could take Palpatine from Luke. He could set the boy free.

He'd spent the boy's lifetime wishing for that one chance to change the past. That one chance to atone—to Padmé and to himself. How many times had he thought it, in the dead of night and the bleak depths of horrendous and humiliating guilt; that if he could have that chance again, just once... How many times had he fallen deeper into his own personal darkness, sure that he had squandered every possible prospect, that there was no possibility of reprieve?

Yet here it was; his chance. His son—_his son!_

He didn't even try to explain himself or his actions—in truth, he wouldn't know where to begin. Didn't believe he had either the vocabulary or the right to expect any kind of understanding or empathy from the boy. But if Palpatine had stolen from Vader his right to be the boy's father, then he could at least be his protector. His guardian. Could gain for him the life that his son had been so long denied, at Palpatine's hands…and his own.

As Vader's guard had dropped in realization of all this, Luke raised his own saber high in an overtly-telegraphed move which Vader could so easily have taken advantage of—

And he did.

'_Don't hesitate.'_ How often had Vader heard Palpatine demand that of his own commands, with long fingers tight about the throat of the child who flinched before him, curved nails digging into his flesh like claws. And Vader had allowed it; had looked away, feeling nothing—had done far worse himself, encouraged by Palpatine: _'Don't hesitate.'_

He didn't. Not for a single second.

When the blade was at its highest above Luke's head, Vader dropped his own saber hilt, discarding it completely to lunge forward, arms out, and grab for Luke's wrists. Snatching a solid hold on his left, Vader pulled Luke in and off-balance as he twisted around his son, so that he stood behind him, reaching up from behind now to grab at Luke's right wrist, still hold of his saber hilt. Immediately he wrenched the boy's hands forcibly apart, so that Luke let out a shocked yell as his left hand was ripped from his saber hilt and Vader yanked the right, still gripping his saber, out to the side.

Then he loosed Luke's empty left hand to clamp his arm tight cross Luke's chest, pressing the boy back against his own immovable bulk and immobilising him completely—and as he always did whenever Vader managed to catch hold of him, Luke went wild.

Without warning, a massive Force-fed body-blow impacted against Vader, hurling them both back to hit the wall behind them at speed, the power knocking the air from Vader's damaged lungs in a rough gasp and whiting out the lenses in his helmet in a burst of static for long seconds, though he kept his hold. Dazed and breathless, the only thing in his mind in that moment, was to maintain his hold…

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Luke gasped, blinking rapidly. The impact of the wild Force-blow had affected him as much as his father, and left them both winded for a moment, stunned, resting against the wall to remain upright as bright stars flashed to the edge of Luke's vision…but as his senses came back to him and he tried to struggle free, he felt that massive arm clamp tighter. His back to his father's chest, left hand pulling at the massive arm that tightened about Luke's shoulders to hold him pinned, his right was still hold of his lightsaber, though Vader gripped his wrist to push it outwards away from them both, so that the tip of the blade was embedded uselessly in the wall, where a blaze of sparks flared.

As Luke writhed to pull free Vader's grip loosened just slightly. Grasping the chance, he hunkered down—only to have that iron arm clamp down against his throat, its loosening a ruse to gain Vader a better grip…and as it tightened to a true stranglehold, cutting off air, Luke felt the familiar veil of panic drop, aware that he was helpless.

Not like this. He'd wanted it to be clean and fast and decisive, a single, lethal blow laid with power and precision, not like this! Memories rushed to the surface, suffocating all previous intentions and firing a panic in Luke born of too many chillingly similar moments.

Dread fired his reaction as he released his grip on his saber completely and brought his free hand, which had been pulling uselessly at the stranglehold about his neck, out—

His abandoned saber flew unerringly into it, deactivating as it did so, but by time Luke had caught it and swung it up and back to press the blade cowl to the leather of Vader's body suit, between the bulk of Vader's tightening arm and Luke's own head, just over his father's heart...his thumb already rested on the activation toggle.

"_Never hesitate…"_ His Master had drummed it into him again and again._ "Don't hesitate, ever. Hesitate and you're dead."_

And after those first few times, he never had. Had always done as his Master had instructed—had demanded—the penalty extreme, if he'd ever failed. It had become second nature to him; act, don't think. Don't feel.

"_Don't hesitate…" _He heard that rasping voice, saw his Master's face, ocher eyes hooded, bloodless lips pulled back from wasted teeth in a twitching sneer: "_Hesitate and you've already lost. Hesitate and you're useless—worse than that. You're a hindrance. An embarrassment. Never, _ever_ hesitate."_

A second; a broken heartbeat in which Luke floundered, thumb to the activation toggle, torn between his Master and his…his father—

And Vader was already moving, releasing Luke's empty right hand and launching out to catch the hilt of Luke's saber to twist it hastily away, so that the blade cowl was pointed outward, where it could no longer harm. And all the while, his other arm tightened about Luke's neck as he bucked to be free, the attempt more futile by the second.

"Stop struggling," the bass voice intoned, Vader's strangle-hold tightening. "Stop struggling—it will be easier."

The edges of Luke's vision were beginning to fog now, darkness creeping in as the last vestiges of the drugs and the previous night's overdose took him down that much faster, his lungs locking in their struggle for air.

His limbs were lead, the weakness profound as they failed. Slack fingers let his saber hilt fall free as his chest heaved, his hand clawing loosely at his father's arm, still tight about his neck…

And in those last seconds, as oxygen-starved darkness fired abstract delirium, he heard a voice, deep and temperate, heavy with remorse: "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…I'm…

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Vader lowered his unconscious son gently to the ground, already dragging his comlink free. "Indo—the command lockdown, now!"

Only the oscillating tones of wide-band disruption replied. Scowling, Vader tried other channels…the same, leaving him to wonder whether it was the Rebels who now scrambled all comms…which meant that the attack was imminent. Glancing about, he looked to the entrance to the bay, where a hard-wired internal comlink was set into the battleship-gray wall just outside of the atmospheric shield doors.

For the first time in his life, he lifted his son to hold him in his arms…and felt that same flare of pride that any father felt, that same deep and driving instinct to protect the child he had created, knowing absolutely in a way that every single father knew when he first held his child, that he would do anything to make the universe his son grew up in safe.

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Indo paced the floor of the secondary Bridge alone, shield and atmosphericdoors behind him locked down. The crew would realize, of course, what was happening. They would track the improper commands down to the secondary Bridge, eventually. But the room was made for use when the main Bridge was damaged, which would by nature be a severe combat situation, and so its blast-rated doors would hold for some time. Still, he paced, nerves afire, gripping the comlink in his hand.

It was the comlink set into the comms panel that actually sounded, making Indo spin about. He stared for long seconds…then walked to it, opening the channel.

Vader spoke quickly and tersely, saying only what needed to be said. "I have the boy."

"Where is he—is he safe?"

"He is safe," Vader replied, pushing instantly forward. "Time is short—is the main Bridge sealed?"

"Yes, completely locked out. All controls are transferred to the secondary Bridge, here, and the atmospheric and blast doors in the corridors beyond are sealed and vented of air."

"Do the same on your own level. That will slow any counter-offensive."

"I could simply…" Indo hesitated, heart pounding and blood singing in his ears…but it had occurred to him slowly as he'd paced alone, waiting for Lord Vader's comm. On some deeper level horrified that he would even think such a thing, let alone be prepared to speak it out loud to the man who had been his enemy for so long, and of the man whom he'd thought that his loyalty and his livelihood were unbreakably tied. "It would also be possible to vent the air inside the main Bridge and conference area, where the Emperor is in residence."

"No." The reply was a rough bark of grim intent before it softened just slightly, as Lord Vader perhaps remembered that Indo was now his ally, as aggrieved in this moment as Vader himself was, and facing the same fate. "It will not work," he said with forced patience. "Not with a Sith. It will simply concentrate his attention on the fact that he needs to break out, when presently he perceives of the threat solely in abstract terms—I can sense that. Together, we will keep it that way. You need only gain me the opportunity to reach him. I will deal with Palpatine face to face, keep him distracted, keep him penned…then I will watch him face his own death."

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To be continued…..

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	33. Chapter 33

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**CHAPTER 33**

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Han was half-dressed in an evac suit in the engine room of the scuppered shuttle, making one last-ditch attempt to connect up sufficient controls to fly her directly, when the resounding clang of a solid object's impact against the shuttle's nose made him stagger back, grabbing at the cradle struts of the engine housing to stay upright as the floor jerked from under him.

Cursing as he ran to the front of the shuttle, he looked out…and loosing fine jets from its maneuvering thrusters as it delicately repositioned itself directly above him, inverted so that he could see into its cockpit from his own, was the impressive bulk of a Wookiee heavy scoutship…with Chewie at the helm.

Luke's comlink, still resting on the pilot's console, let out a brief tone as Han scrabbled for it. "Chewie! I thought you were one of ours…theirs..." He shook his head, not sure what to call anyone any more. "Empire! I thought you were Imperial!"

The Wookiee let out a long run of keening grunts, jerking his head to the rear of his own craft as it scraped lightly against Han's scuppered shuttle to rest as close as possible against the dead Lambda's three huge stabilizing fins—though Han would still have to do a brief, zero-G walk.

He was already running aft to the manual airlock, grabbing for his suit's helmet and gloves.

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Vader stood alone in the turbolift, acutely focused, aware of so much in that moment. Of his son and the boy's tantative future, of the mistakes of his own past, of the inevitability of his chosen destiny.

A calm lay about him—clung to him like the cloak he wore, damping all down…but beneath it an outraged fury still smouldered, firing his resolve as never before.

Because he _would_ stop Palpatine. The facts—that it had been beyond his ability since his injuries on Mustafar—were nothing; paper-thin, trivial irrelevances which had no bearing on his intentions.

They had held him back for so long, when he'd known deep down what Palpatine had become. What he had always been, though Anakin Skywalker had been too naïve and too wrapped up in his own fears to realize. And by the time that Darth Vader had, by the time that he'd regained enough of himself to care, he had known that he couldn't stop Palpatine—not alone.

Because he knew the choice he was making, here; knew his Master's abilities, despite his always seeking to conceal them. As Anakin Skywalker, he had seen the shrewd and consummate Master Windu muster his choice of three of the Jedi's most celebrated sabermasters to take Palpatine from power, as well as Windu himself.

Had entered Palpatine's offices just minutes behind them, to find all but Windu already slaughtered, with Master Windu himself tricked moments later into a vulnerable position by the wily Sith's manipulations…

Still, Vader had long looked back and believed that at his own peak, before Kenobi, he could have brought Palpatine down. It seemed the ultimate irony; that Kenobi had robbed the only man capable and, eventually, willing to defeat Palpatine of the ability to do so. Twice over, in fact; once in reducing Anakin's connection to the Force, and again, in hiding from Anakin the ultimate impetus to act.

But this time, despite old injuries, he could do it. Because for the first time, he didn't need to beat Palpatine…he only needed to buy long enough for the Rebels' plan to work. Gain them the time and the distraction that they needed. Even this wouldn't have been enough once, weighed against the costs to Vader himself. Because to secure that opportunity, he would have to be close to Palpatine—would have to be standing in front of him, the visible threat which the Sith Master was forced to deal with, before all others. And the cost of that, would be Vader's life. He knew that, and it had held him in check for so very long…because what had been the point of removing Palpatine, if not to stand in his place? Until today. Until the incentive that Solo had delivered had changed everything, skewing every aspiration anew. Now Vader's intention to free his son from the Emperor's grasp and the Rebels' intention to bring down an Empire had coincided in one single act: Palpatine's death.

They had provided the means, flawed as they were…but Vader could offset those deficiencies, he could counter the shortcomings. He could _make_ the plan work.

The turbolift juddered to a stop, but didn't open. Instead, the atmospheric alarm above the door lit red for warning. Vader reached out to key the hard-wired internal comm system. "Indo, override the turbolift doors, and open the blast and atmospheric doors onto the Command Bridge. Let me through, then lock them and vent the corridor again."

He didn't listen to the reply, focused past it as he pulled his own saber free, gloved thumb resting on the activation toggle.

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The turbolift opened with a hissing outrush of oxygenated air, lifting Vader's cape in a high whirl to snatch and flutter it as the atmosphere equalized, before the cape fell to furled folds about him, the air in his mask loud in his ears as he set forward. Striding to the sealed Bridge entrance Vader waited, able to sense the milling uncertainty of the men beyond the locked doors. Palpatine hadn't yet tried to open the blast doors—he would likely have succeeded if he had—but then, not knowing what stalked ever closer under cover of the darkness of space, he had no reason to leave the Bridge…yet.

On cue, Indo released both the blast and the atmospheric doors of the Bridge, and again the outrush of equalizing air snatched at Vader's cape to writhe it like a live thing, as the men within hunched back from the miniature whirlwind—then he was through, hearing the life support system on the beleaguered Bridge hiss audibly as it struggled to reinstate lost air.

The first officer was standing close enough that Vader simply took his arm and yanked him backwards into the hallway at the same moment as he stepped forwards. The man fell to his knees, struggling for air. Had he been faster, he would have managed to scrabble back into the Bridge before both sets of doors locked closed before him. As it was, the airless corridor would be his tomb.

There were fifteen officers on a Star Destroyer's bridge.

Lighting his saber, Vader went through them with hardly a pause, in a kind of scarlet haze of fury. Palpatine would hear the noise of the lightsaber and sense Vader—know that Vader was coming for him—but it didn't matter; he wanted his Master to know who had brought about his downfall, and why.

As it was, he had silenced the Bridge before the oxygen systems had fully compensated for the brief loss of oxygen to the hallways beyond. He glanced to the still-closed door leading to the conference room, knowing that it was where Palpatine resided, waiting. He had long regarded the affairs of Sith as something to be conducted in private, beyond the eyes of lesser men, and would intend for today's confrontation to be the same.

He would also likely know by now that there was another threat; Vader himself could sense it, permeating every surface and sounding in the Force like the toll of a bell…but if he made enough noise himself, if he let his own rage and his lust for revenge fill his Master's senses, then he would drown out the abstract danger with a more immediate and insistent menace—with luck, he may even be seen _as_ the threat, in his Master's eyes. Believing Vader its focus, and with no reason to change the venue of this confrontation, Palpatine would remain where he was, not knowing that Vader was playing for time.

Bracing, he stalked the length of the silent Bridge without pause, deactivating his saber; its time would come.

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Palpatine was facing away from the door to the far side of the conference room when Vader entered, his voice quiet and seething. "You come into my presence with a lightsaber in your hand, and revenge in your heart? I see you—I see all that you are."

"You should," Vader growled. "You made me."

"Not well enough, it seems, if you turn on your maker."

"You took him from me!" Vader bellowed the words, furious almost beyond reason.

"The boy?" Palpatine finally deigned to turn, casually dismissive. "I didn't need to. You handed him to me yourself, by your own actions, from the very first night."

"You told me he was Kenobi's!"

"And you simply accepted that as the truth." Palpatine smiled disdainfully. "In many ways, you're so alike. Both cast alone and adrift so young, both searching for the father you never had, so desperate to believe…anyone."

"I gave everything to put you in power!"

"And now you will give your son, to keep me here."

Outraged, Vader took hold of the nearest chair and threw it to the side, summoning the Force to drag the heavy lozenge-shaped conference table that stood between them aside. Chairs were caught up and pulled awkwardly with it as it scraped across the floor of the large room, angling under its own momentum as it went, to finally fall to its side in a thunderous clatter, crushing and splintering the chairs against the wall behind it.

Palpatine simply stared without flinching, a loose, uneven smile on his thin lips…

For a second neither moved, Vader held to stillness by two decades of inaction. He had never once lifted his blade to the Master who had dispatched Windu in his prime, and duelled Master Yoda into submission and retreat—here was a man not to be underestimated.

His thoughts went to his son. Though Palpatine had been careful to never once give Vader any measurement of his strength or technique in training duels, he had spent years instructing the boy in the art of the duel, teaching him from childhood, hour on hour, day on day. Brief images of a malnourished child, trembling from exhaustion yet willing to do all that he was told, to practice until he quite literally dropped, flashed through Vader's thoughts. Of being summoned to the practice hall when the boy was barely capable of standing any more, and ordered to duel, to teach him endurance; to fight no matter what. Of his own all-too-willing readiness to take advantage of that…

Because of this man. Because of this man's self-serving greed and unspoken fears. The leather of Vader's gloves creaked as he tightened his grip on his saber; he would show him those fears fulfilled today—had brought them all to this room, to lay at his Master's feet. To hurl in his face.

Palpatine glanced beyond Vader's shoulder. "What is happening on my Bridge?"

The question hit to the heart of Vader's intentions and cooled his fury to a more calculating resentment. Time was Palpatine's true enemy, here—and Vader would gain it all that it needed.

"The Bridge doors are sealed," Vader replied; no lie. "Your command crew is now dead."

Palpatine barely tipped his head, unconcerned. "I have other commanders."

"Do you have other Sith?" Vader bellowed. "Are we so easily replaced?"

"We? Did he tell you?" It was said as a knowing taunt.

"…No."

"Then I've not lost him yet." A moment of consideration, then Palpatine smiled just slightly. "Viscount Indo, I presume…he seemed most uneasy this morning, as I recall. The boy tells him too much. Speaking of which, where is my charge?"

"Unconscious…and beyond your manipulations."

Palpatine tilted his head. "Then you didn't kill him? Good. I'll have need of him all the more when you are dead."

"To protect your worthless hide?" Vader growled. "For that, you sent a boy, half-drugged, to duel a Sith Lord."

Palpatine straightened, lip curling at the provocation…then settled slightly, letting it drop to an open sneer. "I sent an advocate to fulfil his destiny…which he has failed to do. And I have no need of protection from anyone, Lord Vader. You of all people know that."

Vader straightened to his own full, imposing height. "Today we put that to the test."

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There was no great herald, no standing ready, no real indicator that the duel had begun…Palpatine simply launched forward in a Force-augmented leap, the saber he always carried falling from his sleeve to ignite as he did so.

Vader brought his saber up as it ignited, so that the first blow on both sides was with partially lit blades, so fast had they moved.

The first blow was hugely powerful, given all the momentum of the leap and forcing Vader a staggered step back as he countered with a grunt. Already Palpatine was moving, his blade wrenched free as he twisted into a swift and inward turn which landed a horizontal blow to Vader's other side, augmented by the impetus of the turn to add power to an already punishing blow. Vader caught the blade high and wheeled about to gain the chance to loose his first blow, a fast strike as he came back around to face Palpatine, forcing him to crouch down.

Faster than expected, Palpatine parried and brought his blade horizontal against Vader's to turn the defense into a lurching stab at head-height, forcing Vader to a hasty change of defense as he spun then snatched his blade up beneath Palpatine's to push it away, using the upward momentum to guide it over his helmeted head in a wide horizontal blow, buckling his knees slightly to ease its passing—

And then it was over, and he was inside Palpatine's guard, his saber above his opponent's. In the last second as the blades had closed on his unprotected shoulder, Palpatine dropped his own blade horizontally in defense, turning side-on to gain the angle and power to guide both blades past his shoulder without contact. Then whip-fast, he lowered his center of balance to give him the impetus to heave them back, his speed belying his age, his motions fluid and efficient, forcing Vader to retreat a step as the blades sliced the air before him.

The surprise of the counter forced Vader to a single misstep—but it was opportunity enough to enable Palpatine to do that which Vader had dedicated himself thus far to preventing, knowing that it was the true threat. With a second to finally prepare, Palpatine loosed his saber to one hand and brought the other up, pale fingers spread—

The Force-blow hit Vader to the center of his chest, and even braced, it knocked the breath from him in a harsh gasp. A second as he fought to recover…and another blow, harder and more focused than the previous, impacted against his sternum to lift him from his feet for a second and lock his lungs in shock as he landed heavily, willing himself to remain on his feet. A third, whilst he was still struggling to breathe, thrust him back another staggered step, his saber useless. A fourth, this one not abating but maintaining momentum, driving him back. He leaned into it, fighting to maintain sufficient closeness to Palpatine to remain a threat—

And suddenly the pressure was gone and he stumbled forward, forced to catch his weight awkwardly on one hand, dangerously vulnerable and all too close. His saber, in the hand that had fallen to steady himself, embedded slightly into the polished floor—and stopped, as it hit some hidden shielding beneath the deck plate, slowing the blade's progress. Palpatine was there instantly, slamming his own blade down horizontally to catch Vader's almost at the hilt, trapping it and leaving its wielder undefended.

Without hesitation Vader deactivated his saber so that the downward pressure that held his blade pinned was instantly nullified, then pushed back, lurching to his feet as he did so, his saber reigniting as it formed an infinity loop to force Palpatine back, a scarlet wall of coruscating energy.

Backpedalling rapidly, he heard the barest scrape of metal on metal behind him and spun about, free hand raised, fingers splayed. Palpatine didn't have Luke's speed or Vader's brute strength, but would compensate in his own inevitable way; there would be no niceties here, no rules of engagement to be broken, no etiquette to be breached. Vader had known that the wily old Sith would put any loose object into play as a missile eventually, so had scraped the chairs in a tangle to the far side of the room as soon as he'd entered, using the long desk to hold them trapped. Now, he Force-pushed again at the massive desk, crushing the chairs down one more time before swinging hastily around as Palpatine came forward, blade high.

Three fast blows, high, low, high—and on the last one, primed, Vader didn't block the blow but met it and let Palpatine's blade run along the length of his own, allowing them both to travel wide as he stepped closer in, giving him the room to disengage safely—and as he did so, batting Palpatine's saber away, he brought his elbow back with all the power of his shoulders behind it and unerring aim.

The blow impacted with Palpatine's eye socket, snapping his head violently round as it threw him five staggered steps backwards, arms flailing. Hunching over with a gasp, Palpatine brought his hand to his face, and drew it back to stare…

Scarlet blood oozed from the wide split above his eye socket, and the rush of satisfaction that Vader felt to see that he had drawn blood from the one who had bled him for so long, was sublime.

Palpatine's outraged glare came back to Vader with new ferocity. "I _made_ you!"

"I made myself." Vader hesitated a second at the unthinking admission…had he? Had he recreated himself out of all the rage and regret of Padmé's death without once seeking atonement? Wrapped it about him like the armor he wore, deflecting any blame? He hadn't once gone to Naboo, hadn't once tried to look any closer.

Was that what he had allowed himself to become—the empty husk of his own desperate denials.

"You take too much credit," Palpatine growled. "I led you and fed you every step of the way. I fashioned a tool for my own use."

"And your own destruction."

Palpatine lifted his lip into a lopsided sneer. "You haven't the power to stand against me. On the day you let Kenobi best you, you lost the battle with me, too. Anakin Skywalker had that potential…but you, you're just a broken little puppet. Your only use to me was in leading your son forward, and even that is now spent."

"Because he knows the truth!"

A slow, insidious smile came to Palpatine's lips. "Yes, he knows…and what difference did it make, in the end? He still searched you out with a lightsaber in his hand, at my bidding."

Vader almost said it; almost spoke aloud: _'He had the chance—and let it pass, by choice.' _But he'd give the old man nothing to aid his scheming. He was done playing such games.

Instead he gave the answer he'd learned to everything, over the years—the answer that Palpatine himself had taught him. He brought his saber round in a wide arc and over his head as he stepped forward with a massively powerful downward blow.

Palpatine staggered back before its fury, forced to give ground as Vader whipped his saber back and round in one fluid movement, landing another blow, driving his opponent back—

Another, and another…and Palpatine was running out of room, his body jerking as he backed against the wide entrance to the closed door.

As Vader wheeled back for a final blow, Palpatine swung his saber swiftly to the side to gouge into the door release plate with a flare of sparks as circuitry ignited, and the door slid back behind him so that he half-stumbled, half-fell back into the Bridge, twisting as he did so to come to his feet, forced to stagger awkwardly to avoid the open command pit.

Vader came in slower as Palpatine retreated further, gaining awareness of his surroundings and of Vader's handiwork, so that he was forced to sidestep to avoid the corpse of one of his commanders.

Given this moment of distance the temptation was too great, and Vader glanced briefly across the bridge and through the first viewport set beside the massive tech's screen. Beyond the hulking bulk of the _Devastator_ distant laser fire caught his eye, coming from the outlying _Relentless_ and _Gauntlet_ and centered on an incoming corvette, its shields glowing iridescent white beneath the barrage. The bright exhaust trails of far-off snub-nose fighters were just visible as they'd peeled away to harry the Destroyers, dividing and drawing their fire with brief lances of their own lesser guns.

He looked quickly away, face coming back to Palpatine, grateful for the mask which hid his eyes.

As he clambered swiftly upright and backstepped, Palpatine's gaze passed over the corpses uncaring, to focus on the crew pits…on the darkened consoles there.

Immediately Vader moved to distract him. As he set forward he ran his saber tip through the floor of the bridge in a fast, deep slash, knowing there were countless systems wired up beneath. The gout of sparks flew upwards towards Palpatine's face, forcing him to recoil quickly, arm raised to protect his eyes—

And Vader struck, the blow a one-handed backward swing on the return of his last, lacking power but maintaining momentum, forcing Palpatine to back up hastily, fast enough to defend against the onslaught but unable to take control. Vader made a hasty stab to Palpatine's hip, and his opponent twisted swiftly, his saber vertical to knock Vader's blade aside. Using the inertia of his body and the fact that his saber was now beneath Vader's, Palpatine continued his clockwise turn as he lifted both sabers over his head, the twist and lift taking his saber to the dominant position to Vader's aside and force him to make the same rotation, powering Palpatine's blade away in the process. He twisted three-sixty, blade at shoulder height in a wide arc with all the power of the turn, his torso and his shoulders behind it, and even braced, Palpatine was forced back three staggering steps, his heels going over the edge of the crew pit and forcing him to flail for a second, as Vader sensed his draw on the Force for balance—

Already immersed to steady himself, as Palpatine stepped forward his hand lifted, palm-out, as his blade dropped to his side—

The body-blow hurled Vader back ten paces to hit the Bridge's sealed blast doors with immense force, and he dropped down as his legs gave beneath his weight, winded—and felt the Force rip the saber from his fingers to skitter away down into the crew pit with an echoing clatter, its scarlet glow extinguished.

In that second, knowing what was going to come, it was more important to Vader to crouch to one knee, gloved fist to the floor as he gathered the Force about himself and braced—

The next heavy Force-blow whipped in and furled about him, trying to lift him, but he was sufficiently centered that though the brutal wrench pummelled and yanked him, he remained solidly grounded.

Not that Palpatine was fazed. He came forward instantly, substituting physical threat for Force-driven attack as he used the distance available to raise his saber for a wide blow. Given the split-second's opportunity Vader lurched up, hand reaching out to the crew pit now behind Palpatine, fingers spread, working blind.

His saber pulled free and rushed forward, clattering as it impacted awkwardly with multiple consoles…and igniting as it did so. Palpatine sensed it of course—realized the danger in time to jerk swiftly about, forced to turn his overhead blow into an unwieldy defense of his own back as Vader's ignited saber rushed towards him, spinning wildly.

He made the parry in a flare of crimson sparks, knocking the free-spinning saber clumsily to his side with no hope of summoning the Force to stop it before its swift connection with Vader's outstretched hand.

Palpatine twisted back, his blade trailing a deadly horizontal sweep about himself at chest height, to cover the vulnerable moment that his back was half-turned to his opponent. But the instant his shoulders had passed halfway and his turn was bringing him back to face Vader, he broke the wide sweep by snapping his blade up and over his head, its downward slash timed precisely to the point at which he was once again facing Vader.

Still in place to defend against the wide horizontal sweep, Vader avoided the flawless move only by dropping to one knee as he twisted his body to the side, his own blade disappearing into the floor in his haste. Palpatine's coruscating blade nicked the back of Vader's leg greave before he heaved upwards and forwards, shouldering into Palpatine.

Lifted bodily from the floor, Palpatine let out a brief grunt, the arm holding his saber caught over Vader's shoulder and unable to drop—but even then the danger of the blade was too great, and Vader was experienced enough to know when to press and when not. He heaved back, allowing Palpatine to drop, struggling to remain on his feet.

It took only a second to see how unbalanced he was; how vulnerable. Vader caught his retreat on his back foot and powered forward. Their sabers clashed only briefly, a glancing deflection that knocked both to the same side away from their bodies, as Palpatine sidestepped to Vader's right, still unsteady…still vulnerable.

Close in and with no risk of an incoming saber this time, Vader's hand left his hilt and snapped up to lock about Palpatine's throat as he powered his Master back, Palpatine struggling to maintain his footing, eyes wide. They stopped only when Palpatine's back hit the viewscreen to the side of the bridge with force, the impact knocking the air from his lungs in a gasp. Still holding their sabers in contact out to their side, Vader brought his arm forward, twisting his blade vertical to trap Palpatine's against the viewscreen to his back. He pressed closer, fingers closing about Palpatine's throat as the Sith gasped, mouth open wide, struggling for air…

How many times had he seen this man turn on his son in this way without hesitation, pushing a child half his weight back as pale fingers tightened about the boy's throat…

Leaning closer, towering over him, Vader focused all his effort, snarling in fury—

To the edge of his vision, Palpatine's saber moved—not against his own, but back, all counter-pressure released so that the forward push of Vader's own blade embedded them both into the large viewscreen. An instant gout of dazzling sparks surged from the damaged screen, engulfing them both momentarily and forcing Vader to flinch back, his hold on Palpatine momentarily loosening.

He sensed rather than saw Palpatine's free hand claw at the chestplate which controlled the life support system which he depended on, and lurched backward, making a fast horizontal swipe which Palpatine avoided half by ducking and half by the simple fact that, finally freed from Vader's stranglehold, his legs gave partway to sink him down.

Already Vader had planted his back foot and caught his weight, pushing off again as he completed the wide horizontal sweep behind his own shoulder then brought his blade abruptly over his head for a downward blow, a flare of bright crimson.

Palpatine lurched to the side, saber making a swift infinity loop about his body to defend his retreat—a second one, an incandescent screen as he changed his hilt from hand to hand and spun about to face Vader, still backing up, chest heaving.

"I saved your life!"

"You _took_ my life," Vader howled. "You took everything! _Everything_ that was of value to me, you took away."

"It was not I who turned the Force on Padmé," Palpatine dug, looking for ways to fire Vader up past reason. "You did that. You lifted your hand to the mother of your unborn child."

"Because of you! You spent years carving your Sith out of the Jedi I was trained to be."

"I cannot make you something that you are not. Nobody can."

"No," Vader quietened, realization letting him nod slowly. "That's why the boy's eyes haven't changed."

A smile twitched Palpatine's lips. "They will, given time."

"I deny you that."

"You think that one act, now, will make up for a lifetime of neglect and abuse?" Palpatine sneered.

"You misunderstand," Vader growled grimly. "I do not do it solely for the boy. I do it for his father, Anakin Skywalker. For the future that you stole from him. For the wife you made him turn on. For the son he never knew, and the life he never had. Retribution."

Vader started forwards, and Palpatine's scarlet blade twitched briefly up in defense, though neither joined the fight…yet. "Petty little tantrums, for things that never were? How disappointing, Lord Vader. Your loathing is only at your own actions, in truth; your own shortcomings. You held the ultimate power…and you squandered it. Or do you think I could have gained so very much from Master Windu, or Master Kenobi? You were already broken the first day I saw you—why do you think you intrigued me so? Did you actually think that I had any true interest in some naïve young ingénue?"

"You saw a power to own."

"Or destroy, as I saw fit."

Vader stared… he'd been about to speak—to counter the claim with one of his own—but realization had stopped him dead. Because despite all of Palpatine's fast dismissals, that last threat had been inadvertently revealing…of the fact that Palpatine had feared him. He'd resented Anakin for his power, yes…but because he _feared_ him. And with it Vader understood, too, why Palpatine had been always so harsh with the boy. So desperate to dominate that he had railed against Luke with utter antipathy his whole life…yet kept him close.

Because the same blood—the same power, the same potential—had run in the veins of Anakin's son. And Luke had known that—the upshot if not the reason—had tried always to keep his abilities in check, to mitigate his Master's wrath.

He stared, words from a distant past—another life—echoing down the years: _"Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."_

Perhaps he realized his own admission; perhaps he realized Vader's recognition…but Palpatine's lips pulled back in a belligerent sneer as his hand, hidden by the partial turn of his body as they'd spoken, came round and up.

The flare of Force-lightening crackled across the distance in a millisecond, a fractured blaze of brilliant intensity which hit with knifing power to slice through Vader as it sought to ground. Grunting, he pulled his saber up to catch the next spear, knowing that it would come—

It hit with the power to wrench him from his feet, whiting out reality in an agonizing burst—and the next second he was on the ground, wheezing.

Fool—he'd been a fool! It took long seconds to summon Force-lightening into being. To raise and shape that much kinetic energy whilst bottling and containing it, feeding it all the while, in readiness to release…and in talking—in allowing Palpatine to do the same—Vader had given him that.

He yelled his own fury as he rose, stumbling, to his feet, calling on every iota of strength, knowing that if he didn't repel the next burst—

It hit like rage itself, impacting on the center of his chest with the force of a falling star, brilliant, blinding energy piercing through his ribs and slicing within, a thousand stabbing blades of pure energy draining the very life-force from him.

He fell to one knee, his massive frame weakening, his power waning, breath coming short as he toiled to get air into his lungs, struggling to stand, the wounded wolf beneath a hunter's gun, the outcome growing more and more inevitable. Briefly, blindly, he lurched to his feet, the heat in his chest growing ever more profound, an iron strap taut about it.

Another blaze of bright pain, and in a flare of sparks the panel strapped to his chest fractured…and he knew. He knew what Palpatine was doing. His breath heaved, the life support suit which had sustained him for so long beginning to fail catastrophically, the one assault against which he had no defense.

The unit wheezed ineffectually, bleeding every strength as Vader sank down, the weakening prey. And Palpatine waited, hands out before him, fingers splayed in that familiar gesture…and all that Vader could do was to stare, reduced to wretched weakness, his will intact as his body failed, and his adversary came warily forward.

The killing blow didn't yet come, though Vader was on his knees now, his wide chest heaving for the oxygen that his ruined life-support system could no longer supply.

Then his saber, held in loose fingers, was snatched fiercely away to scrape across the floor, deactivating by the time it reached Palpatine's part-lifted foot. As he pressed down his heel to hold the hilt in place, Palpatine made a single, almost casual sweep, the tip of his own ruby blade glaring as it brushed the floor—and the saber that Vader had held and wielded in his Master's name for two decades was cleaved in two in a flare of scarlet sparks, before Palpatine stalked forward, his own saber shutting down.

He knew that this duel was over—that his opponent was beaten.

But as was his nature, Palpatine sought to extend the moment for his own gratification.

Chest heaving, his whole frame rising and falling with every broken breath, Vader waited…because even this, he could use. Even this fed his own intentions as much as his Master's, buying Vader more time and holding Palpatine's attention for vital moments longer. This had never been a duel in which lightsaber mastery was the prime component, though in brief, triumphant moments it had felt like it could be. But he had always known that it would come, at last, to this—and so he kept his eye on the subtler goal, the greater reckoning, every second a victory.

The floor about him lit with the actinic flash of more lightening, and Vader braced…but it sparked and died, reduced to a reined-in corona of vivid blue-white energy about Palpatine's clawed fingers as he crouched before his former advocate.

"You think I would kill you, with this?" Palpatine murmured, head tilting as he examined his foe. "Oh, but that would be too easy an escape. Too fast. Too clean, for all the frustration you have caused me. No….this is the final, extended dénouement of the moment that I came to you on Mustafar. The moment that I saw you, ruined, on the bank of the lava flow. And I wish to see you brought low now, as you were then. To sit and watch the life slowly seep from you, breath by agonizing breath."

Vader lifted his head, but could do no more, and Palpatine settled, satisfied. "That is the difference between you and me—between Master and acolyte. Your revenge has been a long time coming, but mine, my friend, has been a long time here…and I have savored every second of it."

He reached out and rested his luminescent hand against Vader's failing chest-plate to deliver another damaging blow, searching sparks that coursed over its surface and into his heaving lungs, forcing muscles to wire-tight spasms, as Vader wilted, hands falling to the floor to support himself, body failing.

"Always so very sure of your own power, Anakin, even when it was allowed free and unthinking reign. You had just one Jedi Master to deal with on Mustafar…and you let him best you. You threw away in one petty and personal duel all of my plans and intentions, to leave me with the broken shell of what I had assumed. All the hours that I invested in making my Sith, squandered in a single duel. The potential that I had taken years to create."

"You had…" Vader strained to draw in breath. "You had no great plan for me more…more than petty manipulation…"

"You?" Palpatine lifted his chin. "You? You were irrelevant. I am talking of _my_ plans, _my_ intent, my timetable of events—all of which you threw into disarray with your failure on Mustafar. I should have stood on the banks of that lava stream and watched you slowly die. But you'd taken that option from me, by removing all others of your kind…so I saved your pitiful hide, forced to make of it what I could—and this is how you repay me." He leaned back, sanctimonious. "So you see, this is how I repay you, too—for squandering the power that _I _deserved. I thought it was enough to see you trapped in this suit." Palpatine's eyes roved the failing life-support suit dispassionately. "To see you brought low. Padmé's champion, her protector…her loyal hound. All the traits that I had spent years carving into you as you grew…wasted, on her. So this has all, you see, been my revenge. And I would have meted it out for another decade, given the chance."

He reached out to rest his hand once more on the life-support unit strapped to Vader's chest, the blue-white corona building.

"But it is drained, and we're done. We have returned once again, to that moment on the bank of the lava flow on Mustafar…and this time your use is spent, and I may finally enjoy watching that broken body succumb to—"

A lance of close laser fire lit the bridge in a flash-flare of brilliant orange-tinged light. Both men glanced aside, Palpatine flinching, shocked—

And visible through the viewport as it closed on the _Devastator _beside them, seconds from impact, the parts of its hull closest to those pearlescent, besieged shields discoloring in wide, scorched bands beneath the heat of potent shields and direct fire, the _Ram_ bore down on its target…

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"Leia!"

Han's voice over her Y-wing's cockpit comms made Leia jump, though her eyes remained on the looming drydock—and the _Ram_, still ahead. "Han! Where are you?"

"I'm onboard Chewie's scoutship—I just got in here." His voice was sufficiently clear on the only unscrambled channel that she could hear the tinged mix of adrenaline and panic.

She knew, of course, that he'd contacted the _Conqueror_ before they'd started scrambling—that he'd told Vader, of all people, of the _Ram's_ incoming course, before someone onboard the _Manta_, probably Tinney, had listened in and had the wherewithal to break the comm signal. Yet the _Conqueror_ hadn't moved. Hadn't even separated from the Drydock yet. They must surely have identified the threat by now. Even if their view was obstructed by the _Devastator_ to their starboard side, and the wide-band scrambling was blocking ship-to-ship communications, the _Devastator_ itself had seen the incoming _Ram_. Its starboard batteries had opened up as the corvette closed, its threat status indicated not just by its inward course, but by the long-range laser fire from the _Gauntlet_ and the more distant _Relentless_. Even if the _Conqueror's_ command staff believed it an unviable attack, standard protocol said that they should have removed the Emperor's Destroyer clear ofany danger…yet it remained.

"We're turning round, for the _Conqueror_," Han said quickly over her comlink—then paused, as Chewie's howl cut in. "What the hell're you talkin' about, too close?"

Chewie's reply was brief but well-observed.

"Well then get me a ride that can make it! Move us round, for Sith's sake—get us round that dead shuttle! I can't even see what's…"

Han's voice trailed off, as Chewie must have cleared the scuppered shuttle that Han had been trapped in, to give him his first real look at the situation—and as he cursed, she saw again her own position, still a good minute behind the _Ram_…still chasing it.

Chewie's barked logic was remorseful but relentless, as he read off of the distances and the speeds with flawless reasoning, and listened patiently to Han heated arguments.

"…can't leave him—it's not an option, understand? I can't leave him, it's…he's my Honor Family, you get that?"

Chewie fell silent over the comm, leaving Leia to wonder once again how an Imperial pilot knew Wookiee society so well…though she knew Chewie's answer already.

He didn't even grumble as he brought his scoutship about, his only voiced worry that they wouldn't even nearly make it—they were further out than Leia, and she wouldn't make it, even—

She reached forward, cutting the channel, unable to listen…

Still forcing the joystick of her own fighter forwards as if the amount of pressure on it could make the tiny fighter go even one iota faster, the painful, terrible truth of Chewie's words, not even directed at her, somehow filtered through her own wilfully blind denials. She stared at the _Ram_ ahead, its modest scale dwarfed by the imposing mass of the _Devastator_, just seconds away…

_Seconds away_…for the first time, Leia's hand loosed against the joystick she had forced forward in desperation for so long that her palm was sweating where it held the joystick's imprint, her fingers aching...

Too far away—she was too far away…

In the brief seconds it took to finally accept that, the _Ram_ hit the _Devastator's_ shields without slowing, their failure visible in the brief tracing of light which rode like a ripple out from the impact point, the failure spreading over the whole of the massive Destroyer as the _Ram_ powered on.

It hit the side of the Command Tower perfectly on-target, plowing into it in an inward crush of stressed metal as the _Ram's_ shields flared white, crumpling the outer hull of the Command Tower meters ahead of the _Ram's_ actual hull, giving the strange impression the Star Destroyer was almost cringing away as the _Ram_ pushed forward—and everything in a dreamlike silence as Leia slowed her fighter further, unable to look away.

The _Devastator_ tilted painfully slow as its bridge collapsed inwards from the forward momentum of the _Ram_, the impact from that initial shockwave trembling through the whole of the Destroyer and rocking it where it hung, still moored to the drydock. As the massive Destroyer skewed away on its axis, the drydock's heavy coupling arms buckled, loosing gouts of sparks and brief, bright flares of flame which used their oxygen in seconds and died. It should have been a frenzy of destruction, but sitting in the grand isolation of deep space, the daunting scale of the couplings, their diameter easily five times the size of Leia's fighter, seemed somehow diminished to a trivial play of light, the immense bulk of the Star Destroyer barely moved by the fury unleashed upon it.

But its bridge was a wrecked tangle, firing with its own blazes as the surface of the Command Tower ripped and warped, destruction flaring ahead of the rupturing metal. Had she been closer, Leia could have flown her fighter through the gaping cavern of destruction which the _Ram_ left in its wake…yet it seemed almost peaceful from this distance—a speck of damage which flickered in brief acknowledgment of the _Ram's_ passage, silent in the void. Here and there a secondary explosion lit the surface, their positions arbitrary, the only indicator of the true damage within which caused the _Devastator's_ slowly-listing descent…

Then a bright flare lit the far side of its Command Tower, making Leia blink rapidly as it erupted out in a shower of fractured hull plating—and the _Ram_ re-emerged, its shields glowing to the point of overload but still seemingly undamaged. It cleared the _Devastator's_ wrecked Command Tower a second later, its bearing pushed just slightly askew by the damaged Star Destroyer's descent…but still on-course for the _Conqueror_…

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Indo stood on the secondary bridge and watched the spectacle of the CR90 corvette plow into the far side of the _Devastator's_ Command Tower, its impact ripping the Destroyer free of its moorings and rocking it onto its side in a silent and slow-motion ballet of cause and effect. Explosions flared as the _Devastator's_ damage compounded, but they were brief and minor, and for a second Indo feared that it had all been in vain; that the _Conqueror_ had been protected by the _Devastator's_ bulk…then a bright gout of flame erupted from the near side of the Command Tower, powerful enough to make Indo flinch back and feel, for the first time, the _Conqueror_ itself quake. The corvette reappeared, powering unharmed through the center of the bright orange flares and maintaining its unerring course for the _Conqueror_…and Indo smiled, imagining Palpatine letting out a wailing, accusing yell of fury and fear and frustration, knowing it was too late. For long, perfect seconds, he smiled.

Reaching out across the Tactical console, he depressed a series of square buttons in sequence, each changing from green to red, flashing a warning as they awaited confirmation…walking two steps to Ops and staring at the Rebel corvette, so close now that he could see inside to its empty, unlit Bridge, Indo confirmed the deactivation of the _Conqueror's_ shields…

"For you," he whispered to his son, believing absolutely in that moment, that Dubrail could hear. Perhaps it was his own state, balanced between life and death, knowing the outcome… He wondered too, if his son knew that Indo had finally realized his mistakes—and how deeply he regretted them. Then and now. "For you, Dubrail…and for—"

He hesitated, eyes widening in horrified realization as he turned to take in the doomed Destroyer . "Luke!"

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The bright flare of initial contact as the _Ram_ had hammered into the _Devastator_ had been half-eclipsed from view on the _Conqueror's_ bridge...but the impact rocked the massive Star Destroyer, knocking it to list slowly towards the _Conqueror_, barely a Destroyer's-width away.

Mortally wounded, Vader watched Palpatine stagger upright to stare as the _Devastator's_ Command Tower erupted, disintegrating in gouts of fire-heated gas and power-loaded explosions, the whole of the _Conqueror's_ bridge lit bright orange.

Time had held suspended, distorted seconds of agonizing uncertainty…..

Then the _Ram_ emerged intact, bearing down on its true target.

Those bright ocher eyes were wide in shock…and it took just a second for them to drop to the darkness of the inactive crew pit, where every console lay inoperative. Another for him to realize that the _Conqueror's_ shields would be inactive—for all the difference it would make.

He stumbled back, mouth opening in a silent '_O'_ of horror at the realization.

Another step back, then his head snapped to the locked blast doors. He could prise them open, Vader knew. Rip them from their heavily fortified settings…but run where? Or given perhaps half a minute to focus he could summon the sufficient of the Force to wrap it about the incoming ship and hurl it back…but he must know that even fatally wounded, Vader would give every last iota of his own strength to counter him, and even then a half minute was, quite clearly, far longer than the rest of his life.

Vader struggled to his feet, battered and beaten, the life-support that had sustained him for two decades wheezing as it shorted out…but he held his head high as Palpatine's eyes came back to him.

"You!" One pale hand rose to point, skeletal finger trembling. "You did this—kept me here!"

"For my son," Vader said with pride, his breath failing, but his conviction absolute. "I can never…be the boy's father. You've seen to that—put too much between us…to ever bridge. But I…I can be his protector. I can…be Anakin's reckoning. I can be Padmé's champion, one last time."

Watching him—watching as he loosed a wretched scream and backed rapidly across the empty Bridge, for all the good that it would do him, Vader felt a sudden, fierce pity for the man who had done so much wrong by him. The terror in his eyes, the blinding, all-consuming fear that made him cry out like a child, the self-centered egotism that made his own demise such a terrifying prospect, as Vader braced in calm readiness…and the rage and the satisfaction that he'd anticipated dissolved, leaving a profound clarity.

"_What does your heart tell you?"_ His mother's voice, her gentle face, her infinite tenderness, was a balm. A reminder of what he had lost—and what he had unknowingly deprived his son of.

All that he'd done today, he had done in hope of one thing, granted freely to him by another—by his son. And in needing it so desperately himself in these last moments, he finally understood its worth.

Staring at his embittered adversary, the most powerful thing that Vader could do—the most powerful thing he could _feel_, the most powerful thing he could say, was simply,

"I forgive you."  
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The Jedi…they had spent so long and invested so much in teaching this boy from Tatooine to deal with the ability that was his by birthright, always apprehensive of his power and potential…but there was a greater power, Vader knew, which had been threaded through him with equal intensity in the moment he'd been born; his own emotions. And yes, it could be a destructive thing to be at their mercy…but they could be a noble force, too. The purpose and the undeniable resolve that enabled every being to rise above baser instincts and sacrifice so much, that another would survive.

"_What does your heart tell you?" _His mother had existed in a state of grace deeper than any he knew. Had given up the one thing that she had truly loved, surrendered her only consolation in life, in the hope that her son would have all that she was denied.

The love of a parent for a child was surely the purest emotion of all, the selflessness on which all other instincts should be based… and yet the Jedi had sought to deny him such feelings, from and to any other. To tamp them down and renounce them. He had failed…and he was, he realized, proud of that fact. Because now, those same emotions would earn for Luke the chance to step out from slavery that Vader had never had—and that was everything.

They were flawless, these feelings. He knew that now. They gifted the wielder a clarity of mind and strength of will without limits. A driving desire to prevail. A selfless willingness to give anything, to overcome all _for another_. Another life, which meant more to you than your own.

All those years of black and bitter hatred, they were nothing, compared to this. This shone brighter and stronger and truer. And the darkness may still exist in every bleak and acrid memory, a past that could not be erased…but this was stronger. This was everything, in this moment. This was all that had been denied him for so long. This was contentment. This was glory. This was joy.

The light that flashed in the next instant was like the sun itself, and for a moment its flare took him back to the dunes as a child, the heat of twin suns baking the air itself, their dazzling brilliance glorious…

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Sitting still and unmoving, unblinking, unfeeling, Leia watched the _Ram_ reach the _Conqueror's_ Command Tower just a degree or two off-course, gliding forwards without encumbrance, its own shields flaring and sparking as they finally failed, too late to change the outcome. It hit the Command Bridge in a protracted spectacle of cleft and fragmenting hullplates from both ships, ruptured panels compressed into each other or hurled clear by the power of venting air…

then detonated.

The flare of light was brief and silent, blooming out in a wide, irregular arc of destruction which enveloped not just the bridge, but the entire Destroyer. For a split second it seemed to rock, jolting pitifully at the blast…then a huge, gaping section of the upper hull to the base of the Command Tower disintegrated in the spreading shockwave, reduced to a gaping void as the ship shook beneath the spreading momentum of the blast.

She stared mutely as it fell away from the drydock in horrific slow motion, given momentum by the power of that initial blast. The nose, still intact, impacted on the Destroyer _Retort_ to port, and both ships shook and shattered as the forward section of the _Retort _fractured beneath the impact, ripping it open to space as the _Conqueror_ broke apart midship from the force of the collision, venting oxygen as it was dragged free of its moorings, power umbilicals flaring and sparking in the darkness.

The damage was too great for the _Conqueror_ to hold integrity now, and explosions chased across the remainder of its ruptured surface at breakneck speed, firing chain reactions that tore more and more of the remaining hull open to space in widening fissures. Fuel and coolant lines ruptured, flaring across its surface as they traced back towards those massive engines, heading for one inevitable conclusion.

There was a moment's stillness—or perhaps that was in Leia's mind as she stared, knowing…

Then the _Conqueror_ fragmented in a single blast that lit the darkness about it with the brightness of a sun for one glaring, brilliant instant.

She didn't look away to the other Destroyers and capital ships tethered to the drydock as they too erupted and flared in bright explosions, too close to withstand the fury of the blast, their own shields overrun. Didn't register as the drydock itself collapsed in a flurry of smaller explosions which shredded its narrow form, ripping huge reinforced docking arms the size of city blocks free to cartwheel away as more explosions gutted its carcass, tracing the chasing lines of destruction to leave charred darkness in their wake…

Didn't register as the drydock itself finally detonated from damage sustained—had barely noticed its devastation, her eyes remaining always on the _Conqueror_ as explosion after explosion turned the endless night to daylight.

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She simply stared, numb, at the dying fragments of the ship that her brother had been onboard.

It wasn't until the shattered debris which had scattered outwards from the _Conqueror_'s blast impacted with her Y-wing's shields and shook the small craft, rattling it in its wake and making Artoo loose a shocked squeal, that Leia finally blinked.

"Luke—" It was quiet and breathless, as much the emotion as the word, as she stared into the fading light…

And then nothing.

The empty stillness of absolute night, lit by the dying embers of ruined carcasses. She strained her senses to search for him…but nothing came back from the void. No tremor within the Force, no awareness of his or any other presence within the empty stillness.

She could only watch the tumble of still-burning debris as it rode the bow front at the far side of the expanding shockwave, still burning what oxygen it had left to fill her vision with an eerie, ethereal glow, growing more distant by the second.

Over the comlink, she heard the first yells and whoops of those onboard the Rebel corvette _Manta_. Heard their excitement, their relief, their joy…but her own was muted, drowned by the weight of very different emotions which settled into her stomach like the icy, creeping cold of the void.

In a single, fire-bright moment, she had gained everything she'd ever wanted for the galaxy…

But the cost had been everything she'd dared to hope, for herself.

She glanced down, the pinpricks of distant stars twinkling as tears blurred her vision…and she heard another voice, desperate and demanding, frantic with nerves.

Leia leaned forward to flick the comm, swallowing hard against the knot that was welling in her throat. "He's gone, Han. He didn't make it. I'm sorry…I'm so sorry."

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_**EPILOGUE**_

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She still thought of him often; the brother she'd found and lost. Even now, almost five months after the event, she still thought of him so very often. And now—right now—he was everywhere.

They'd taken the ISD _Relentless_—the sole survivor of that galaxy-changing event—two weeks ago in an open firefight for control of the Kathol Sector, deposing its appointed Imperial Moff at the request of its native population, when it petitioned to join the burgeoning Alliance of Free Planets. News had spread that the battle had been successful, and another Star Destroyer was in Rebel hands. New requests for aid came in, new offers of support, open and tacit.

Travelling onboard the _Relentless_—now renamed the _Kathol's Pride_—Leia was very much aware that for Han, this was an uneasy return to the ship that he and Luke had used often, in his tenure with the Empire.

He'd stayed, of course. She'd feared that he would hold her responsible, that he would turn away, but he was bigger than that. For a self-confessed cynic, the man who had helped bring down an Emperor had the heart of a Wookiee.

When she'd returned to the _Manta _after the Emperor's death, landing close to Chewie's scoutship, her homecoming months earlier when she had destroyed the _Death Star,_ had come keenly to mind. Then, even in her own relief at the Death Star's demise and surrounded by celebration, she'd remembered the others, to the rear of the crowd. The silent, hollow ones, who had lost too much to feel anything, in that moment. And here, today, she returned again as one of them.

Han had muttered sophistries over the coming days about lights that burned twice as bright, but he was, she knew, grieving just as much as she, for the man he'd once admitted to her was like a brother to him. He felt Luke's loss sorely; she could sense it like a hollowness within him, perhaps because it resonated so deeply with her own.

And because of that she knew that even five months after Luke's death, the Destroyerwhichhe and Luke had travelled on together when it had still flown under the Imperial flag, held too many memories for him to be comfortable, even for the brief journey to deliver it to the main Alliance fleet. She hadn't failed to notice that there were certain decks and areas that he avoided altogether.

For herself, she could only take solace in the fact that, in some strange way, it might be better like this.

Because Luke couldn't have made it, of course. Couldn't have existed in this new galaxy they were beginning to build—more and more each day now, as planets in the Outer Rim actually openly declared themselves independent of an Empire still foundering beneath the loss of its Emperor. With Lord Vader's demise in the same battle, the chain of succession and leadership had been irrevocably broken, leaving a power struggle of dangerous proportions as Moffs and Sector Governors fought for control.

A trained Sith, loyal to Palpatine, still alive and at large under those conditions? It would have been unthinkable.

There were others, of course; _Emperor's Hands_ who were theoretically still out there. But Luke would have been the number one priority for capture or removal. He would have been hunted with equal zeal on either side of the divide, because any Imperial with ambitions of leadership would have sought to either use him to bolster their own claim, or remove him as quickly as possible, to protect it. And the Alliance...even here, he would have been the scapegoat, the easy target, the visible symbol of a corrupt regime. Of the other Hands, all they had were vague descriptions: female, human, red, or occasionally black hair… Luke had been at least semi-visible. He was the one that Intel knew about, his image captured occasionally from his tenure at the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, in his Emperor's service.

The truth was, that she couldn't have protected him—no one could.

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On an evening was when she thought of him most. Thought of her father, too. Wondered if they had been together, at the end. Wondered what had happened.

Wondered how the very thing that she had worked so hard toward for both herself and the Alliance, had become such a hollow complex victory, laced with loss.

Perhaps Obi-Wan had been right after all; ignorance would have been kinder. It would have enabled her to stand beside her brothers in arms and feel infused and inspired to face the fight anew, with the Empire crumbling beneath its own hypocrisy. Would have enabled her to walk the gray halls of this vast ship with something akin to pride, viewing it as an emblem of the changing times.

Because in the end, her knowledge of the truth had made no difference, save in her own heart. In the end, she stood alone with her deeds—or sometimes…sometimes, harder still, not quite alone. Occasionally, walking the cold metal corridors, she'd sense some trailing trace of her brother's presence, a melancholy echo of the fading past. She didn't smile; she couldn't, not yet—the sense of loss was still too deep and too tender. One day maybe, she'd be able to think of him and not feel this keen, aching loss—but not yet.

In the meantime, she threw herself into helping Mon Mothma and the Alliance that so many, including Obi-Wan, had given their lives for. Dedicated every waking hour to their ongoing struggle as they gained ground like never before, aware of the gravity of her own position as sole remaining Jedi, and grateful for Han's constant support.

She was doing just that, from the office she'd appropriated to the rear of the _Kathol's Pride'_s secondary bridge, when the message came in. It was short; just a few sentences, with nothing attached… it was sheer luck that she'd got it at all, considering the distances it had travelled in this time of massive upheaval. Only the specific coding inside the message itself had brought it to her overloaded desk, just two days before they were due to deliver the _Kathol's Pride_ to the fleet, and disembark.

It was an Imperial Intel code, used only by those few dangerous individuals known as Emperor's Hands. It was this, the rarity of it, the inherent threat in the knowledge that these elite few were Force-sensitive, even if not fully trained, which meant that it had been delivered to the attention of the last Jedi. The knowledge of Han's reiteration of her brother's final warning, which made Leia herself look more closely.

She ran it through the known Imperial codexes still stored in the _Kathol'_s system, then through the precious few that Alliance Intel had broken since, then spent an age staring at it, thrown one further time because it still made no sense. Before it had even been coded, it had been written not in Basic, but in a language the system didn't recognize.

It was Han, frowning at her screen as he passed, who asked her who had sent a message in Kodig Cant, the modern variant of an antiquated Corellian patois that he claimed was used mostly by smugglers these days.

He'd paused and turned back to it, eyes tracing the first sentence…and a jumbled mix of contrary emotions blasted out through the Force with such chaotic shock that Leia shook his arm, demanding that he read it aloud.

He'd needed a broken breath, swallowing against his dry throat to read:

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'_Hey, little sister—and Han, who's presumably translating this for you, if it reaches you at all. I thought—well, I thought you might want to know that I'm still breathing.'_

Wild hope caught Leia's breath in her throat, widening her eyes as she stared at Han, grasping his arm. "Is this real?"

"I don't...I…..I taught him Kodig Cant, and this is an old version—the one that I wrote down for him. I don't know the newer versions."

So neither would he. Leia's hand were to her mouth in shock as she stared at the screen. Han too just stared for long moments, pulling himself together just as Leia was ready to yell out at him for more.

"It says, uh…

_'I know, now, why you wanted me out, Han, and I know that you told Vader. You probably want to know what happened, when you did. I wish I could tell you. All I know is that Vader—my…—he got me out. Must have put me in a shuttle when I was unconscious, and set it to launch on autopilot, with a lightspeed course laid in. Then he must have gone back to face Palpatine. I don't know why. Don't know why he did what he did._

_I think he knew that I would have stopped you, Leia—stopped the attack. You should know that. If things had happened differently, if I'd had that chance, I would have stopped the shielded_ _corvette. _

_If you're thinking of looking for me, remember that._

_I heard the Rebels took the _Relentless_, in the Rim regions two weeks ago. It's a pity, I liked her. She was a good ship. But it reminded me that I left something there, if you're ever onboard… Han will know where to look. He needs to stand facing Dewlanna."_

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Aware of Leia's expectant eyes on him, Han trailed off, still reeling from the message and struggling to work out what the kid was getting at without…onboard the _Relentless_—they were onboard the _Relentless_ right now!

Leia was already standing. "Do you know what he means?"

"Dewlanna? I have no…" He broke off, finger raising in realization as he snatched the datapad with his other hand. "Come on!"

Despite the rush of recruits to join the burgeoning Alliance, a Star Destroyer was hard to crew, so the _Relentless _was running on the bare minimum, with deck after deck completely empty, shut down to save power, the air stale and musty.

The officers' habitation decks where Han and Luke had once held quarters was one of those decks, running on emergency lighting and so cold that Han could see his breath mist before him as he ran along its empty corridors. He hadn't been here once, since returning to the _Relentless_—the _Kathol's Pride_, he corrected himself—he'd not once felt the urge, the memories and the ghosts too powerful and too painful.

But his feet took him on autopilot now, remembering the turns in the corridors without needing to pause. Only when he reached the right habitation cluster did he slow, out of breath, though beside him Leia's breathing had barely changed.

He paused a second before he pressed the door release of his old quarters, uncertain what he'd find… In any event, a mass of military-issue furniture had been crammed into its main room in disorganized groups, so that he and Leia were forced to thread their way through with difficulty. At the far side Han came to a stop, dragging a pile of stacked chairs away to reveal nothing more than a blank wall, with a single, empty shelf.

Leia slowed beside him, frowning. "What?"

"Here—this is where he meant. The holo I had in my pocket when I arrived—of me and Dewlanna—whenever we travelled, I kept it on that shelf, right there." Han stared at the shelf then glanced about, not sure what he was looking for. "It was right there."

"Han…" She'd crouched down, not knowing what she was supposed to be looking for and simply seeking a different view…and her eyes were not on the shelf itself, but on the wall beneath.

Han crouched and there, on the wall up against the underside of the shelf, was a hand-written message, saying, '_Look for the spice box.' _

Leia frowned. "Spice box?"

"Up," Han said, stepping back as his eyeline lifted. "He used to hide them in ceiling spaces!"

Abandoning his hold on the datapad he dragged one of the abandoned desks over and climbed onto it to try the ceiling tiles above where Dewlanna's holo used to be…and wasn't surprised when one of them clicked free.

In the ceiling space, among the pipes and conduits that amassed on any ship of this size, was just one thing; a page from the drawing pad Han had given Luke, loosely rolled.

Han passed it down and Leia opened it out—and let out a gasp. Drawn on the thick vellum paper in the graphite that Han had bought on Coruscant, was a delicate sketch of Leia from the very first time she and Luke had met, when Han had barged in and dragged Luke away like the big brother he'd always been.

Softer and more tentative than anything else Han had ever seen Luke draw, the sketch had Leia's head set to one side, her open expression given over to a loose smile which lit up her face as it had that first night, before there'd been any suspicions or complications.

She stared at the sketch in silence as Han climbed down to pick up the datapad again and read the remainder of the message in quiet tones. "It says, uuhhh….

'_The hair's not finished—it's not quite right. For some reason, it's played on my mind a lot in the last several months. My thoughts just keep on coming back to it. Which is, I suppose, why I wrote this—to let you know that… That I know it's something I need to come back to, eventually. But not yet. For now, give me time._

_My life was…well, my life was blown apart. You know that. I'm not looking for someone to blame—if I was, you'd know that too, by now. But I've been so much for so many people for so long, I think maybe I need the time to find out who I am._

_Who knows, I might even like myself. I think that maybe, if things had been different…maybe I could have liked my sister. Maybe I still will, one day, when all this has settled. _

_Don't take that as any kind of invitation to come looking for me—it's not._

_Still, I know our family traits, and you'll doubtless already be planning to trace this message. Well let me save you the trouble; it was sent from Tatooine. I came here to see where my father grew up, to see where I came from, who I was, which was…enlightening. I've seen my grandmother's grave—told her what happened to her son, how he helped me, in the end. I think he would have liked that. _

_I'll leave the day I send this message, so don't bother coming. But that…that sketch stays on my mind, and I thought you should know it._

_Maybe, one day, I'll come back and set it right…._

_L'_

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_Fin._

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There you go, folks, hope you enjoyed it :D

As ever, if you want to see the sketches that go with each chapter, they're still up on my website (I can't post them here). Just type in all the three w's, then ' ' or check out my bio page. No direct link any more, but the address is still there.  
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My massive, massive thanks always go out to **Jedi-2B**, who had to dredge through all of this to a pretty punishing schedule, in order to hit our bi-Friday deadline. She does this with nary a complaint, even when I say to her, 'Oh, I'm making this story really short!', then proceed to put out another Death-Star sized tome.  
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You are, Michele, the best Beta this side of Alpha Centauri.

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Also as ever, I'd like to put out a whopping great heap of thanks to all those who posted reviews, week in week out. It is, believe me, the only reason that I keep on setting out on these marathon writing treks.  
Thank-you :)  
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Oh, and just in case you were thinking it's all over…let me direct you to a little preview. I think it might answer a few of the questions that people kept on asking, and I kept on giving those vague maybe's to, and let you know where it's going next :)

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Just click on the next chapter link…

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	34. Excerpt

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**EMPIRE'S SON II **

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**EXCERPT**

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Luke folded his sabacc hand when the Duro next to him threw his own chipped cards down in disgust. He knew for a fact that he had the best hand at the table, but he'd already won five games tonight—ones when there'd been enough credits in the pot to make it worth his while—and he didn't like to win too often. People tended to remember the amount of games you'd won rather than the size of the pots, he'd found, so he was in the habit of regularly throwing games these days, if the stakes didn't rise fast enough. It didn't do to be the one who always aggressively pushed the pot up either; you got a name for yourself that way—and the one thing every grifter could do without, was a name and a reputation.

He could have made more on higher stake tables of course, but he never sat at the big tables, either. He preferred to ply his particular trade among the safe anonymity of lesser games in the less prestigious cantinas which lined the alleys of any Rim-system spaceport like Rishi's Drop-zone. With a little patience, you could make a living at the fringe of any society, and no one was any the wiser. Wasn't much of a living, but then compared to his life to date, Luke Antilles figured it didn't have to be.

It wasn't that he lacked the skills to move up the ladder a little. Indo had seen to that over the years, with his endless efficient zeal, and Luke had grown up under the always-critical eyes of the Emperor himself. So he spoke the eight most common languages fluently, could fly anything from a mid-sized freighter down to a TIE Interceptor or a swoop, could navigate, had knowledge of flight systems mechanics, advanced quantum mechanics, AI, general programming, and could kill a man twice his weight with his bare hands—even without the Force.

But despite these being routine prerequisites for his old life, it turned out there wasn't a lot of demand for that particular skillset in the real galaxy outside of the Imperial palace's lofty walls. Aside from smuggling, bounty hunting and general 'heavy,' of course, none of which he had any particular interest in, having spent most of his life serving the other side of the law enforcement fence, so to speak.

And also, as it turned out—since in his old life, everyone had acted as if these were normal skills for any sixteen year old—the ability to do such things for someone of his age and not much over shoulder-height to the average man, wasn't as common as he'd just naturally assumed—another reason to keep quiet, if he wanted to stay under the radar.

Because the death of both the Emperor and Vader at the Imperial Drydock near Corsin, at the hands of the Rebellion—and, ironically enough, ex-Imperial pilot Han Solo, the one person whom Luke had actually believed he could trust—had thrust Luke into a very different world. One where his Imperial connections would have gotten his throat cut down some dark alley at the very first opportunity. Though they would have had to work quickly, if they'd wanted to get to Luke before the Ubiqtorate, Imperial Intel, the Moffs, the navy, the army…and pretty much anyone else in the Empire, had they known Luke Antilles had survived. Which right now, they didn't. Right now, the Empire had listed everyone of any rank or relevance at the site of the Emperor's assassination as dead, their remains lost when all of the Star Destroyers that had been docked to the deep-space platform had been destroyed in a chain-reaction of explosions that had robbed the Empire of its ruler and its second-in-command. And given that, even at sixteen, Luke's occupation had been to protect an Emperor who was now assassinated, he felt no pressing need to announce his return.

He'd woken up about an hour and twenty-three lightyears from the explosion, bundled into a shuttle by Va…by his father, in some misguided attempt at…what? Luke didn't even know. He knew that Vader had found out the truth just minutes before, though what had been going on inside Vader's head when he'd wrestled Luke into unconsciousness to load him onto a shuttle, then gone after Palpatine—the man who had lied to them both since Luke had arrived on Coruscant aged seven, believing himself the son of Bail and Breha Organa—Luke would never comprehend. Revenge? He'd known that the Rebel freighter loaded with explosives was just minutes away from impact—had actually told Luke that…then had refused Luke the comlink to warn their Master.

Had it been that simple? Blind fury, at being lied to and manipulated by the man he'd helped to put in power? Vader had never bothered to tell him.

And where did Luke fit into that, if at all? Sometimes, when he thought about it, he dared to wonder whether it had been some brief, once in a lifetime flare of protectiveness…but given his explosive relationship with Vader up to that very minute—given the fact that even knowing the truth, they had met with lightsabers in their hands, Luke sent to kill Vader by Palpatine, and Vader more than willing to use force to further his own intentions—Luke had nothing with which to back that hope up. He'd learned already to turn his thoughts away, not willing to reflect on it even now, when all hope was safely gone. Learned such lessons well.

So he'd woken alone and confused at the edge of the Rim systems in a ship whose controls had been carefully scuppered, still suffering badly from the effects of the overdose that Han had used in his own attempt to get Luke away from the doomed Corsin Drydock. Not sufficiently scuppered that they weren't repairable, but enough to leave him adrift for several days as he'd drifted between listless, exhausted sleep and rough repairs, listening over long-range comms as everything he'd known had fallen slowly to pieces. His Master dead, the Empire floundering, the Rebels gaining ground as people whispered then spoke then shouted openly of insurrection. A chain reaction that had flared through the Rim systems and even made it as far as parts of the volatile Colonies.

By the time he'd had the drive system working again, he'd already realized that he had nowhere to go.

He'd destroyed the Imperial shuttle at its first landing, made far enough out from the edge of some Rim world settlement to avoid sensor detection. It had markings and internal OSID's which would have identified it as belonging to the Star Destroyer _Conqueror_ if it had been recovered, so he'd stripped it of anything he could sell then rigged it with onboard explosives, abandoning any personal ID he'd had with it, before trudging for two days across an unknown wasteland on some barely-populated planet, to reach what passed for civilization in this part of the galaxy.

It had taken him three hungry months to find out that there was one thing that he could do, completely below the radar and for which a youthful, innocent face was a positive boon: sabacc. In every spaceport in every city on every planet in the Rim, there were at least a hundred games going down. For someone who'd been taught the likes of quantum mechanics and pure math one-on-one, with lessons twelve hours a day, seven days a week, calculating the odds was easy—even counting the cards wasn't that hard. For someone who could read people's minds, neither was even necessary. Sometimes, just for the hell of it, he didn't even bother using the Force for a whole night.

If you stayed in the spaceports, there was always a steady stream of new faces who just saw a seventeen year old kid with credits to spend, sitting at the table. That had its downside too, of course; you were always having to prove to disgruntled losers just why it was inadvisable to try to retrieve their credits the moment you'd headed out of the cantina and down the dark streets, at the end of the evening. And occasionally, if there was any kind of syndicate in port that you hadn't spotted, you had to be prepared to take a beating rather than draw too much attention to yourself and your abilities. But then Luke had learned to roll with the punches long before he'd fallen back on this particular dismal existence.

And you could only stay in any one place for so long, anyway. The faces at the tables kept on changing, but the regulars about the shadows of the room and behind the bar started getting a little too curious. You couldn't win too much, or if you did, you had to be prepared to move on within a day or so. He'd long since bought himself a few good quality ID's, of course, but face-match technology was face-match technology, and no amount of cuts and colors of hair or iris-dying changed the points-average triangulation of his facial features. The safest thing to do was to stay below the radar, out in the Rim systems.

Fortunately, with the Rebellion gaining support to the point that outlying planets were actually openly declaring themselves independent from Imperial rule without even so much as a blaster raised, confirming whether there had been any survivors of the Drydock catastrophe—aside from Vader or the Emperor himself—was so far down the beleaguered Imperial military's priority list as to be non-existent. Which was just as well, because if they'd found him, they would likely have had some pretty searching questions as to why he was alive when the Emperor he'd sworn his life to protect, wasn't. And when his answers weren't the ones that they wanted to hear, Luke knew damn well that he wouldn't even have made it out of the interrogation cell to stand against some wall before they shot him.

All in all, not a great incentive to return.

In fact, the way things were going, out here in the sticks where the Rebel Alliance was gaining a serious foothold, he had suddenly found himself with the kind of past that could get him put up against a wall and shot on either side of the fence—always a sobering thought to start every day with. Which was why he'd found that the best course of action was to get non compos mentis by noon.

Then again…Luke paused, studying his own thoughts. For days now, _something_ had been itching at the corners of his awareness. Some sense of…what? Not that sporadic background scratch that still clawed the very edge of his senses in sleep, as it had done for years; that recurring grind of fractured familiarity, like a well-known tune in the wrong key. This was something else, something more tangible. Something closing—someone searching…for him.

He'd wondered briefly if it might be Leia, following the ill-conceived message that he'd sent to her in a weak moment, letting her know that he was still alive. He still had no idea why he'd done it—had put it down to a momentary psychosis; spice, or one of his many brief periods of unwilling withdrawal…who knew? But surely she had the good sense not to try to follow a Sith who'd warned her against it…then again, would he?

And that presence still whispered occasionally, a half-heard allusion whose origin he couldn't quite lock down. Sometimes it seemed benign, other times assertive. Aggressive, even. And though he'd had some vague sense of staying ahead of it for months it seemed, of late, to be closing in…

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Leia stepped off the ramp of the scoutship and onto dry, dusty soil that reminded her of home—but here the dust was a dark, mossy green, instead of the golden, sun-baked hues of Tatooine. She glanced about, squinting as her loose, shoulder-length hair lifted in the wind and whipped across her face, then pulled the long, homespun cloak that she always wore tighter about herself.

Stepping past her to kick at the loose soil as he looked over the dilapidated hollow in the ground that passed for a landing platform around here, and towards the close cluster of hunched, single-story buildings that formed the local township, Han lifted and resettled the blaster he'd taken to wearing in a fast-draw holster at his hip, as he glanced back. "Cantinas?"

"Cantinas," Leia nodded.

They'd followed Luke's trail for months now, whenever they'd had time or an opportunity, while moving with Alliance troops from Rimworld planet to Rimworld planet, in support for the Rebel Alliance.

But now, for the first time in Leia's memory, they did so freely. Ten months after Palpatine's death, the Empire remained locked in its own internal struggle for leadership as a loose conglomerate of high-profile Moffs sought to hold it all together. The late Emperor hadn't exactly been one for delegating responsibility, and aside from…from her father, Vader, there had been no one else who had the universally recognized right to step into Palpatine's role or sit on his throne. Grand Moff Tarkin would have been the only other stand-out candidate, and his demise onboard the Death Star just months before the Emperor himself had died, removed that possibility. So the Empire had floundered in the competition for ultimate power, and did so still, giving the Alliance uninterrupted opportunities to drum up support, especially in the outlying systems.

And it was here, too, that Leia's brother had fled, burying himself among the disaffected who lived on the fringe of any society, particularly out in the Rim, where even Imperial law had only ever been intermittent.

She'd picked his trail up at Tatooine, where he'd sent her his one and only communication to let her know that he'd survived the destruction that had killed his Master. He'd been deftly elusive ever since, but Han knew Luke well—far better than Leia herself—so he had a knack for rooting out the kind of places that Luke would have fallen back on, and for reasoning out his actions and direction when he decided to move on, yet again…and slowly, a pattern had begun to form; a template for her brother's life, now. Vague stories of a gambler would crop up, not much more than a kid, who drifted into town on any available transport with nothing, and somehow managed to cajole his way into a few games of sabacc with what little credits he had…

He'd take a room somewhere quiet and keep to himself, staying for a month or so, careful not to play too often at the same cantina. He was young enough that people noticed, but still, he left a hard trail to follow. It was Han who first suggested that they check out the local spice dens and dealers, much to Leia's surprise. But sure enough, the moment that the unknown gambler started upping his wins, the spice would follow…and every time, he made a few too many enemies along the way. Fights would ensue. Sometimes the unknown gambler was sober and spice-free and he'd trounce all comers so capably and so brutally that people still spoke about it for months afterwards…other times, he wasn't so lucky. He didn't seem to care. Eventually, he'd drift on to the next spaceport on the next planet, travelling ever further out to the very edge of the Rim worlds, forever running…

But now and again, as they had today, Leia and Han would get a lucky break, and hear a whisper close to their present location…though to date, they'd always petered to nothing, as Luke had moved on before they'd pinned him down.

Except this time. This time they were so close she could _feel_ it. She couldn't sense his presence, of course; even now, Luke was far too wary to ever slip so completely, old habits too ingrained. But at the very edge of her awareness something diffuse and elusive whispered, and it drew her on like a siren.

"This is it." She turned to Han, grabbing at his wrist as her heart pounded. "He's here…somewhere. He's here, on Rishi."

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Luke threw the burnt out stub of the spice stick to the ground as he walked out of the cantina, aware that the spice, fed on by the frigid air, was going straight to his head as it mingled with and enhanced what was left of the night's casual alcohol intake.

It was so late that it was almost early as he walked down the quiet back road towards his digs, staying out of the pale glow of the widely-spaced street lights. Blurred by the presence of spice in his system, he was still aware that someone was following him—watching him—and he knew they had a sliver of the Force about them. At times through the night, they'd seemed able to hide, though at other times they'd leave an almost clumsy gap in his awareness of his surroundings, so that he could sense their cloaked presence as a smudged haze on the inside of his thoughts.

Maybe he should abandon his stuff and head straight to the spaceport, but he had a lot of credits tied up in the false ID's hidden in his single rented room, and although he had one on him of course, if he left Rishi on it he sure as hell didn't want to arrive at his next stop on the same ID. That was asking for trouble.

Again as he walked, that nagging feeling that someone was in the shadows nudged him, tightening his jaw and leaving him to regret having smoked that last spice stick, aware of its lingering effect in his system. Probably shouldn't have drunk so much either, since he'd known early on that someone was there.

But then there'd been someone there for days now, at a distance. He was getting lax, to have just let it be. He should have sought whoever it was out, and stopped this on the first day. Or moved on, as he had in the past. With the cold air pushing the residual effects of spice and too much drink through his veins, leaving him angry at himself, the unknown stranger and the galaxy in general, Luke turned about on the open street to yell into the semi-darkness behind him.

"Come on then!" He opened his arms, resentment fizzing and distilling. "What are you waiting for—come on!"

Nothing happened… Two spacers, a human and a Dug further down the far side of the street, glanced about, clearly thinking him insane. Maybe he was.

He waited for a while longer, glaring into the night, but nothing stirred. Frustrated, he whirled about and set off again, his steps unsteady. He _really_ needed to sober up, just in case they actually—

A heavy weight impacted against the whole of one side of his body at once, knocking him clean off his feet to skid painfully along the dirt road on his shoulder, moss-green grit grinding into bare skin as his jacket and shirt sleeves ripped away. He twisted as he fell, instantly sober, tucking to roll onto his knees, then scrabble up into a defendable position as he braced, aware that it had been a Force-blow which had just sent him sprawling. He turned—

And saw her at the last moment, incredibly fast, black cloak fluttering as she came in at a full-on run, dark clothes rendering her little more than a vague shadow. Something glinted for a split-second in the moonlight, and Luke yanked his saber out from under his battered hide jacket as a flare of power fired, activating it to catch the blaster-bolt at the base of the still-lighting blade in a flare of amber sparks. Not a huge jolt, some logical, dispassionate part of his mind thought: stun shot.

Then she was on him, one arm stretched to grab at his wrist about his saber and yank it outwards as her other arm came round in a wide arc, angled so that her blaster butt was aimed at his head. Luke recoiled at the last second, so that what should have been a blow to the temple which would have knocked him cold instead caught across his shoulder, jarring it and making him let out a brief grunt. He didn't hesitate, didn't even bother twisting free; his knee came up high as his assailant stepped close, pulled in by her unwillingness to let Luke's saber-hand free, and Luke caught her a heavy blow in the ribs, buckling her over with a gasp. Taking the brief opportunity he twisted with her, bringing his free hand round to catch about the wrist that still held that blaster and twist it against its natural movement. With a grunt her hand opened, but as the blaster fell free she had enough sense to jerk her arm in a half-throw, so that it sailed into the darkness.

Luke glanced to it, intending to use the Force to call it back, but the moment that he loosed his hold on his assailant's wrist, that hand came around in a head-height punch and forced him to turn back, lifting his arm to block it. It hit his forearm with painful force, but he knocked it aside and, inside her defenses, managed to catch her a fast blow. It was aimed at her neck to wind her, but she was fast enough to twist and bring her shoulder up so that it hit there and deflected up to catch her jaw in a glancing blow, its power spent. She rolled with it like a pro but still went down, keeping her grip on his wrist to try to take him with her, though she was too light.

It was enough to unbalance him though, forcing him to take a stumbling step forward to catch himself, bent double by the momentum of her fall. Her leg came up from where she lay on the dirt and caught him a heavy blow across the side of his head with enough force to light his vision in bright flares. A second kick hit his chin, snapping his head back and dropping him to one knee. He had just enough awareness left to avoid the third, and he threw himself on his assailant, using his weight to knock the air from her lungs in a forced gasp. Her grip on his hand loosened and Luke yanked his saber arm free, deactivating the blade as it came in to push the dark cowl against her neck as he leaned in to yell into her face.

"Stop it—stop!"

She struggled for a second more, but he pressed the hilt tighter, and she knew the fight was over. Still gasping as he blinked his blurred vision into focus, Luke leaned one knee on his attacker's ribcage to hold her still as he reached out and pushed back her hood to yank off the dark, overstitched cap she wore beneath. Her hair spilled out in a loose pool of titian red as she glared at him, fury in her green eyes.

"Brie or Jade," Luke yelled into her face. "Come on, which one? You used the Force to hide yourself, or you wouldn't have gotten nearly that close without it, just now. Brie or Jade?"

"… Jade," she grated at last. "Now get the hell off me."

"Why?"

Something hard and cold pressed against the back of his head, and Luke turned just slightly to see another woman, her own russet hair cut to a short, severe bob, who had used the diversion Jade had provided to simply walk up behind Luke and push a holdout blaster directly to his skull.

"Because the other redhead might take exception if you don't," she said grimly.

Grinding his jaw, Luke sat back onto the dry dirt. Great: just fantastic.

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So now you know where things are going, and who's waiting in the wings (plus hopefully a surprise or two…)

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As ever, I'll take a while off before I get started on writing this one, but anyone who wants to be notified when it starts to go up can let me know in their post, and I'll make sure you're informed :)

In the meantime, have a great summer!

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